


Affinity

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clotting and Bleeding Disorders that can prove Quite Serious, End of Story Fluff to make up for the Terrible Situation, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Whump, Tags Contain Spoilers, eventual first time, medical drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 90,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Affinitynounthe degree to which a substance tends to combine with anothera spontaneous or natural liking or sympathy for someone or somethingSimilar:  empathy, likeness, accord, harmony, kinship





	1. Are You Family?

The physics class shifts in their seats as the prof dims the lights by remote, fires up the smartboard, his laptop, the camera so that the experiment will be abundantly visible, projected on the screen in the front of the room. He gathers his supplies. It is always good, he knows, to intersperse actual hands-on or real-time experiments with technology. And although they weren't blowing anything up (so far as was planned anyway), he was pretty certain the students would at least pay attention.

"We already talked about poles, about the strong magnetic forces. Here is a small magnet, not specifically one of the strongest or biggest. I have a small container of rod-shaped metal shavings, slivers if you will. Watch the screen as I demonstrate the pattern of magnetism and the alteration in positioning the two objects have on the other.

"Affinity.

"The properties of the magnet, the force, the concomitant attraction and repulsion, all visible on screen here. See the lines, the way the arching happens as the metal fragments don't know exactly what determines the metal's behaviour. Not at first."

He removes the first piece of glass with magnet and shavings, sets it aside, places another piece of glass.

"So does mixing up the order change the outcome?" There is silence in the classroom. "Crickets," he observes. "Okay, then. Show of hands, everyone participates, here are your two options. First, the order of metal first, magnet second, or magnet first, metal second, doesn't matter and the results will be the same. Your other option, that the results will be visible and obvious depending on which substance I place down first. Matters?" He looks about. "Or doesn't matter?"

He dims the classroom light and returns to the podium. "Okay then. Placing the magnet, sprinkling the metal. There's our pattern, the image, the forces at work. I'm just going to set this aside, here's the metal shavings first, equal amounts. Now the identical magnet placed on top." The magnetic poles pull and align some of the metal fragments, moving some areas closer, farther, the arching around each side and both ends in an orderly design. He angles the camera so the students can view the findings laterally, to see the sections of magnet that have stood some of the fragments so that they are standing upright, defying gravity, whisker-like.

He flips the two images back and forth, carefully, not jostling the glass at all. "Your assignment, then, is to make some generalisations about magnetic affinity. And then I want you to consider at least three additional variables that you might use in this experiment in order to test how we can alter or influence an items affinity."

He leaves the overhead projector on and delves into the electron and proton responses to magnetic forces.

++

John can feel his heart pounding, skin tingling, knows some of the chemical equations for catecholamine surging, vasodilatation, pupillary response, and baroreceptor mediation of respiratory rate and depth. He pays it absolutely no attention, though, as he hurriedly tosses a few notes at the cab driver - _overpays_, he doesn't care - and bolts through the doors marked A&E in red neon letters. The sounds are abundant but he hears none of them - doors hiss open, passively slide closed, his shoes on the lino, the faint bustle and background noise of a busy triage area, a ringing telephone, the sound of an overhead page requesting anaesthesia stat to obstetrics. Through the doors behind the nurses desk, he hears faint alarms, distant IV pumps beeping, stretchers being pushed, locked in place, and the sounds of care being coordinated. There are medical discussions everywhere, updates, reassurances, bad news being conveyed. The sounds of a young child crying become more muffled as someone slides a room door closed, most likely, keeping sound in, keeping sound out. The continual humm of people talking, a background, low-leveled white noise, is part and parcel of the setting.

A nurse looks up as his strides place him opposite the desk, his fingers resting on the flat surface in front of him.

"Holmes?" He breathes, hearing the edge to his voice, the higher than usual pitch. "I got a phone call."

A few computer keyboard clicks, a frown. "He was in bay eight, but he isn't now." She presses a button and the doorway behind her opens. "Head on back there, ask for the charge nurse."

Cold fingers seem to be creeping out from the centre of John's chest, the faint perspiration behind his neck, under his arms.

John works his way around some monitoring equipment in the hallway and passes a wheelchair before finding bay 8. It is empty but tells quite a story anyway.

An empty stretcher, stripped of linens, sits askew in the room, brakes still off, clearly recently vacated and shoved back into the room in a rush. The monitor still alarms, disconnected, the top display reading three question marks in a row. Although nothing is being actively monitored, there are several historical blood pressures remaining on the screen: 78/30, 69/34. The time stamp on the monitor is about thirty minutes previously, he sees and curses the traffic that delayed him. As he steps closer to read the numbers, he hears someone clear their throat behind him.

There is an edge to her voice, clipped, business-like. "Can I help you?"

"Holmes?"

"You missed him. He went from here to CAT scan." Her eye narrows a little. "Family?"

John isn't sure how to answer that.

++

Best friend. Best man. Flatmate.

Colleague.

Friend.

God he'd been hoping for more. And it had looked like, perhaps, things might have been getting ready to change.

Mutually unspoken interest, communicated in eye contact, things unsaid, a glance, a faint touch, the intention of actually speaking it. And then, life got in the way. Life interruptus. Distraction, timing, meant to be, not yet, both of them knowing it was coming, willing to wait.

It was of course mutually decided, not yet. The expression of Sherlock's chagrin, his frown and his words, plans that had been ethereal and unconfirmed now postponed, "Sorry, I have to ..."

"I know." And John had known, obviously, tyranny of the urgent and all that went along with their lifestyles.

"I don't want to."

"You have to." John had been holding Rosie, but as Sherlock slung his newly and hastily-packed duffel bag over one shoulder, John had pulled him closer anyway, a finger over his cheek, drawing him closer. Soft peck, the briefest lingering, lips warm, dry, surprised. "I'll be waiting."

Sherlock's cheeks had coloured, eyes cautiously bright. "All right."

John had given him a small, hopefully meaningful smile. "All right." His words, his eyes, shy and unable to hold still for long.

"Couple of days." Sherlock had seemed aggrieved but had obviously surrendered to what he know he has to do. The huff, annoyed.

John wanted to echo it, but instead, had given him a shared look of impatience, another smile. "I know," he had breathed.

And then he had been gone.

++

"Not exactly. We're ..." John goes for hopefully uncomplicated. "His brother called me."

"Sounded like he was going to Interventional Radiology after the CAT scan." John hears some unspoken subtext underneath her words. They found something. Something that required immediate attention. There had been enough urgency that they hadn't even cleaned the room as they'd rendered care. And it still hadn't been done.

John nods faintly. "How'd he look?" He knows his eyes are worried, his brows in a frown, and he blinks quickly not caring that anyone looking at him can see the emotion, the vulnerability plain on his face.

"What kind of an update did you get?" Her eyes are hooded, dark, her words non-committal. John well remembers the vague medical-ese that they could defer to when necessary.

_Oh god, it's bad then._ "Collapsed a couple blocks from the tube station. Not much more."

From out at the desk, there is a burst of commotion as another ambulance crew comes in with more noise, family in tow, and there is shouting with slurred words and impending agitation. It is joined by the sound of others responding, assertive, protective. "I --" she begins and then disappears to help with whatever was obviously more urgent. There is a helpless and somewhat apologetic shrug of her shoulders, and John understands, he really does.

John casts another glance about the room. There are discarded venipuncture supplies, hastily thrown monitor cables hanging over one of the organiser hooks, a few dressings from IV cannulation kits, some IV tubing wrappers, and nothing else personally identifying.

The A&E is set up as something of a funnel, a gatekeeper between intake from the outside world and the rest of the hospital services. John is somber as he turns his steps toward the depths of the building, wondering if Sherlock had even been awake when he'd taken a similar route earlier. Blowing out a breath between pursed lips, he keeps an eye out for signs and has no qualms about trying to get as far as he can. There is a small waiting room inside the radiology suite, and he taps on the glass door to get someone's attention.

"Holmes? From A&E to CAT scan. He might be in interventional radiology now."

"Down the hall to the left. Waiting room. Buzzer on the wall." The technician shrugs. "Sorry, beyond that, I have no idea."

"Thanks."

_I just want to know how he is. How bad is the bad. Was he ....?_

John approaches what must be the waiting room for the IR suite while his mind plays out worst case scenario. Collapse. Cardiac arrest. Aneurysm. Embolism. Haemorrhage. Perforation. Rupture... He doesn't think Sherlock is using again, but ... He gives himself a mental shake as he opens the door. No sense borrowing trouble, not yet. It is the end of the regular day, the scheduled patients long discharged, and there is actually no one at the desk nor in the waiting room. There is a buzzer, as he's been warned, but the inner door to the rest of the suite is open, and John pokes his head through into the next room. There is procedural noise coming from one of the rooms at the end of the corridor, staff and equipment and bright lights. Fluorographic imaging, the faint beep that the machine emits, is going on inside. Over the closed door, the sign is backlit, the red words XRAY IN USE. There is a control room, a staff member seated at the window, watching. He is making notes in an active computer screen, watching intently.

John can barely make out a few words. "Fluoro on ... try the smaller guide-wire ... another three mills of contrast ... cycle another pressure, will you?"

From deeper in the room, more muffled, "Fluoro off."

Through the window of the control room, John can see ... not much actually. A lot of paper, sterile draping, two more people - physician and technician, John figures - watching a screen, another standing by the patient. There's too much going on and too much of an obstructed view for John to see much of Sherlock at all - presuming it's him, anyway - and the large screen they are watching is angled that he cannot see any of it.

"Waiting room's back out there. You can't stay there," the technician says, mildly annoyed although not aggressive. "Sorry."

"Holmes?" John does not issue a challenge at all, simply wants to confirm that he's closer than he's been.

"Yes." The intercom buzzes again, and John holds his breath a little as he gathers that it's not going too well inside the procedure room. "Right, I'll call blood bank." The technician makes a shooing gesture and dismisses John as he picks up the telephone. "I need that unit of A neg, rapid release for Holmes, in IR room one." A pause. "Right. Courier it over stat, I have no one to send."

John knows that to delay things even a second would be counter-productive on all fronts. He wants an update, needs to know what's going on, just as much as he knows that these people are working on Sherlock, trying to fix things. Of course, he certainly doesn't want them to interrupt something important to give him information. In his mind he is already moving toward the waiting room as instructed, but he glances one more time into the procedure room through the observation glass.

There is a lot of oxygen equipment at Sherlock's head, specifically what modality John can't tell, and his curls, his hair is covered by a flowery procedure cap. The monitors in the room are all turned that he can't see, but he can sense enough to know that they are working urgently, quickly and safely as they can. Racing against the clock, fighting a very bad outcome. And along the side of the table, visible under the clear plastic securing device that serves several purposes, tucked in along and under the cushion on the table, he makes out Sherlock's hand.

His long fingers are unmoving. And extraordinarily, shockingly, _frighteningly_ pale blue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know (gently) if you find a typo or something is unclear. I'm not always a fan of writing in present tense but this piece has smiled, flipped up its collar, and imperiously resisted any other tense.


	2. When You Come Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory. Not too much in the medical build up (yet) unless you're looking hard. Or mind-reading. And if that's the case, gosh I'm so sorry! AH! Or, congrats for figuring it out!

Had he been asked, John would have remembered breaking an old fashioned mercury thermometer once as a kid. He and Harry had been looking for something else - plasters, most likely - and had knocked it out of the cabinet in the bathroom to hit the lino.

The glass tube, he would remember, had shattered in a few large pieces, but the mercury, well, now that was a whole different level of fun to play with.

Of course, then, no one'd had any idea that mercury was actually dangerous when absorbed through the skin. Or inhaled for some reason. Or ingested.

For them, for a block of time anyway, it had been tiny beads that defied anything John'd encountered before. It kept to a small puddle in his palm, separating into little balls, then smaller ones, then coming back together when he pressed it that way. And it was heavy, surprisingly so, a unique metal that was liquid at room temperature. Although John didn't know much about it at the time, he was impressed at the way it behaved. The surface tension, the way it drew into itself and the smaller balls were quite round, whereas when it was in one piece, was flattened.

And as a child, he would not have known the word - but he certainly could grasp the concept, how the little beads of mercury were assimilated, quite attached to itself, drawn tight in attraction. The element was most stable when it was one large conglomeration.

Affinity.

++

The first time it had happened, when the foundation of their relationship had begun to shift, John and Sherlock had just returned from dinner. It had been a glorious evening, Rosie very well behaved, a little charmer, enjoying being the center of attention. And not just attention from them. The older couple sitting at Angelo's. Angelo himself. And Mrs. Hudson when they'd returned home.

Baker Street had been home for a long time save the brief time when Sherlock was ... _away_ ... and when John belonged briefly to someone else and lived across town. But they decided it made more sense to share a flatrental. They were relatively compatible, friends for a long time, and one of them was budget conscious, so when the dust settled - John recovering from his grief and Sherlock from his brief stint in rehab (again) - that they once more shared the flat.

Rosie was a normally good-natured one-year old, but this evening, she'd been sweet and precious, bubbly as she was apparently well rested, not teething, and overly happy with everything John - or Sherlock - gave her. She'd eaten dinner, enjoyed the atmosphere, been enamored with the candle Angelo'd brought (battery, thankfully), played with very simple everyday items, smiled along the walk home. John had bathed her, Sherlock had loitered in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, chatting and overseeing, on his mobile occasionally, and before long she was in fresh nappy, clean pajamas, and smelling of freshly washed baby, clean baby shampoo, and sweetly snuggly as John had prepared to go tuck her into the bedroom that they shared upstairs. He came back downstairs, empty-armed, to find Sherlock still motionless in the hallway, a bit lost in thought, and he didn't really look up in awareness until John was right in front of them.

Quantifying the moment, the tension, the dynamic between them, would have been hard, but it was all in the eye contact, the radiating heat between them, the knowledge that they were close, happy, and ... satisfied. Something in the air perhaps. Very good.

Sort of.

And yet ...

It was also more than that. More than them separately, more than friendship, fulfilled and yet not entirely. Underneath the satisfaction was another kind of awareness, a yearning, a longing.

Smiles, bright ones, happy ones, turned a bit more serious the longer they'd stayed there, breathing common air, sharing common skin tingling.

John's eyes grew darker, his hand coming out to reach subconsciously for Sherlock's arm, a flicker of only his gaze to Sherlock's mouth.

John, unsettled, uncertain, perhaps more aware of the stakes.

The words, quiet, almost silent, spoken, the audience of one, attentive.

_Can I?_

_Please, a thousand times yes._

Sherlock, far more impulsive at times, had been the one to move first, swooped in, broadcasting his intention and John was so ready, so prepared to feel finally skin contact where he'd only gone in his mind previously when Sherlock halted only a short distance away.

The words, whispers, Sherlock's eyes had been bright and laser-sharp focus. _Are you sure?_

_Yes._

_But you ... don't. And you've always said ..._

_Just because I ... don't doesn't mean I haven't_

Sherlock's brow had arched at that, a small gleam in his eye at the realisation. _It's always something_, with two mouths smirking. The connection between them, the way their eyes had stayed on each other, along with the awareness of the smile, the openness, the crack in the wall of their reality.

John did not let himself celebrate too much (yet), remembered vividly that night, also at Angelo's. A soft chuckle, _And god, you said married to your work ..._

_We've been idiots_

The faint smile bloomed full on Sherlock's face then, and he ended the discussion by closing the distance, pressing his lips hard to John's. A hand, John's reached up for Sherlock's jaw, holding at first, keeping, lips shifting, asserting, relaxing. _Oh god please stay._

Until his brain engaged, _oh god, no, we need to be so careful._ And slowly, carefully, gently, he pulled back but did not cut the connection. His voice a whisper, "Please."

"Yes." Sherlock answered the question that John didn't even know how to ask, pressed his lips in home, once more, with more finesse, more yearning. More promises.

"Slowly."

Mutually, they nodded, pressed foreheads together, touching at the temples briefly, let their breathing and their wants settle back down to just simmering.

"It matters too much," John ventured, his voice a little gravelly and careful, "that we can't rush. Not for you, and not for Rosie."

Quietly, Sherlock nodded, but his words failed him. He smiled then, a sad smile of _yes I understand but I don't like it._ John had appeared to be waiting for an answer. "All right."

"Soon." John's words were meant just as much to assure himself.

"Yes."

++

'Soon' ended up being complicated by Rosie getting a cold, during which time all the sweet goodness went right out the bloody window and she was positively miserable. Didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't want to be held, didn't want to be put down. Hated the violin, hated when it stopped. Hated the cold medicine John brought home, spitting and spluttering it all over both of them when John tried to give it, even using all of his med school paeds rotation tricks. He tried mixing it in with food, oatmeal, jello, applesauce, and once despite all rational thinking that he shouldn't do it, plain sugar for cripes sake, but she was on to him.

The days were long; the nights were longer.

The assuring touches, the occasional moment when it was just the two exhausted men, when they needed a grounding, a centering, and a touch, a grip, a hand pressed on a shoulder or a back. John's head tingled for ten minutes when Sherlock rumpled at his hair, a slow, gentle, lingering brush across the back of his scalp. And Sherlock, when John leaned in to set his tea down on the table, a slide of his hand from shoulder to bicep, well, Sherlock's moan had more of a vibrato than John'd ever heard from the man.

The cold-suffering Rosie was horrid longer than she should have been, and the cold hung on for entirely too many days especially for those trying to wait patiently for things to progress. Eye contact over morning coffee, over afternoon tea, seemed to do much to settle them both, a reminder that they were okay, that waiting was all right, that they were still moving forward. There was some rising stress, some expectations, as the roller coaster car clicked slowly up the first incline, that scary slow,_ I can't wait_ and _I can't wait for it to be over_ kind of build-up. Both of them, anticipating some time together when Rosie was finally starting to get well. John had a few babysitters in his arsenal, and he tested the waters for the possibility of a late evening, perhaps even one where Rosie could spend the night at Molly's. Both of them knew it was coming, both wanted it. And yet, the waiting grew long even though it was a few days that stretched into a few more.

Not that the waiting was easy. Occasionally, one of them was more snippy, more stressed, projecting the frustration onto something they shouldn't. One brief surge of annoyance from Sherlock resulted in a door-slamming flat exit. John hadn't thought of the phrase 'danger night' in a long time, and when Sherlock had not returned when John bunked in for the night, he'd left a note, a hastily scribbled, _Hang in there, it'll be okay._

Both of them, tired. Neither sleeping too well for a smattering of reasons.

And then, Rosie was just showing the first signs of beginning to get well, sleeping, her personality re-emerging, and there was a sudden wrench thrown into the works.

Mycroft. A text, followed in quick succession by a phone call.

With a case.

And a veiled threat.

An obligation to be repaid.

"I could still ... refuse," Sherlock muttered once his brother was off the other end of the mobile call.

Chagrined, John shook his head. "Of course you're going. You have to. You said you would." He was still offering an occasional assurance - trying to convince whom, he wasn't sure - as he led the way down the hallway, preceding him into the bedroom, knowing he'd follow. "Which suitcase?"

"You know I'd rather ..."

"I do. It'll keep." Practical, reasonable John, keeping Sherlock moving. Like Nike, just do it.

John had leaned an elbow against Sherlock's dresser while he'd chosen a sleek, stylish suitcase from the top of his closet, suitable in size for a few nights, and watched a few moments while Sherlock stowed a few changes of clothes inside. "I suppose," Sherlock finally intoned, "that we've not had particularly good luck with timing."

"It is what it is," he started, finishing with, "It's fine." John couldn't stop the drive, the impetus that motivated them into another touch, a grounding reassurance, a magnetism that drew him. Their eyes met again, and the fates of the East Wind that had been blowing since Mike Stamford uttered a few sentences that had changed the course of their histories, puffed around them again like a gentle breeze. "We'll pick up, where we were, once you get back."

The touch of lip to lip had been simple, charged, a promise. It was cut mildly short by a cry, a cough, a summons from Rosie.

The following morning, shortly before Sherlock was to leave, John caught him throwing a pack of cigarettes into the case.

"Don't." John looked pointedly at the suitcase, back at Sherlock. "Just, don't."

"You don't understand." Sherlock's frustration, his restless energy, kept him from meeting John's gaze, his raised browed look of annoyance.

"Don't I? You think you have the market on frustration here?"

"You have better coping skills than I do."

"Bullshit on that. You just choose not to be responsible for your behaviour. Whatever excuse suits you at the time."

There was a huff from one, then a huff from the other. It was John's voice of reason that came back on line first. "We've waited this long. It's worth it." Their eyes met again, connected, and there was a resigned smile of understanding, of empathy. "Take care of things. And then come back." _Come back to me_, he doesn't clarify.

"And a cigarette for stress reduction when needed."

"You shouldn't. And you know it."

"John." His whinge seemed to take the wind out of John's logical argument so he changed tacks.

"The easiest way to quit is by never starting."

"We'll see."

The farewells, the see you soons, were exchanged. John's heart was still a bit heavy as he watched from the flat window as Sherlock got into the hired car then looked up, the window framing his bright eyes, pale skin, curls. Another smile was exchanged, bridging the distance. There was longing and sadness, a touch of regret for both of them in slightly different capacities, as the car drove away.

++

Mycroft's alert system was highly sensitive and it had been refined over the years that very little would slip by him. Or if it did, not for long. It wasn't always real time, but usually pretty close, within a couple of hours.

Most of his alerts were tied in to particularly delicate situations that would require his intervention, and triaged by colour of severity. Scandals involving high-level officials or international incidents were also most often reported to him. He of course monitored his parents and their safety, as well as Lady Smallwood, Irene Adler even after all these years, and John and Rosie Watson. London in general. Volatile situations involving other strong economic players. Brexit. The former Mary Watson. He chose not to dwell on some of the previous alerts - John's fists, Mary's mortal wound in the aquarium, the showdown between Sherlock and Culverton Smith. Sherlock's alerts had drastically changed over the years, and thankfully no longer involved the overdose or ASBO. Of late, they had been fairly benign.

If he chooses, he thinks as he feels his mobile vibrate with another incoming alert, he could investigate Sherlock's buying habits, but the last time he'd done so, it had been nappies, wipes, formula, Indian take-away, and a just-released book about poisonous plants. He knew without looking at the actual transaction on CCTV footage when his brother had purchased cigarettes recently, just given the nature of his stride, his protection of his left coat pocket, and the faint smirk about his mouth. He had a few stashes too, himself, and so he'd stopped giving Sherlock an overabundance of grief about that. He also, of course, could almost instantly monitor any of the active projects that his underlings were working on. Sherlock's location, for example, he'd known that he'd arrived safely at his destination, resolved the situation, and was returning to London relatively victorious after only three days. He thinks that he will bring him in to his office for a live update in the morning.

His mobile, though, demands to be viewed and he slides it from his pocket. There is a text message, an alert, about his brother. It is followed by another alert, higher on the alarm scale, that flashes red, with capital letters across the top, GRADE 3.

Mycroft is immediately aware of some dyspepsia, xerostomia, and the realisation that this is not a drill or a mistake or even a low level incident. Blood whooshes under influence of a severe catecholamine surge, loud in his ears, as he considers the update, re-reading for clarity.

**SH collapsed suddenly three blocks from Euston Square tube station. No provocation, no foul play. 999 dispatched, taken to UCL Hospital. More details and present status undetermined.**

He looks at the time, sees that some time has elapsed since the first message was run through his system. Longer since it had happened. His mobile notification, though, had been almost immediate.

He will mobilise his staff for more information, to facilitate optimal medical care if needed.

But first, he will mobilise John Watson.

By far, John will be the most effective player on the disaster response team. 

++

The A&E physician sees the stretcher round the bed, staff attending, working efficiently yet still racing the clock. He compartmentalises because that is what he does, what he needs to do, and considers the backlog of patients still waiting, waiting longer because of the acuity of this last patient. A few computer clicks and he brings up the patient record looking for next of kin. There hadn't been a spare moment to do it before now. "I'm Dr. Franco from UCL. I'm looking to speak with Mr. Mycroft Holmes please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, please don't play with mercury.
> 
> A short one to fill in some background, intentionally choppy.


	3. I'm Here for Holmes

Water in all its simplicity is a chemically robust, powerful substance. Water molecules are comprised of two hydrogen atoms for every one of oxygen. It is actually a polar molecule with covalent bonds, with an uneven distribution of electrons which yield differing charges based on the location and draw of the electrons. Electrons are more attracted to the oxygen giving one segment of the molecule a negative charge, and less attracted to the hydrogen giving it a slightly positive charge. This accounts for the attraction of water to itself. Water has a strong surface tension, is a universal solvent, and is the only substance that exists naturally in three states - solid, liquid, and gaseous form. The surface tension is what causes water to bead up in drops on a surface rather than to spread out in an even layer.

Another word for surface tension: Affinity.

++

"Holmes? Are you family?"

John looks up in time to see a scrub-dressed clinician, looking a little weary, in the doorway of the waiting room. "Yes. Umm, well, sort of." John sees his opportunity fading. "Flatmates. His brother called me, asked me to come."

The provider makes a decision not to fuss about the technicality and reaches up to remove his head covering, ripping off the mask and binning all of it. "Have you had any update at all?"

"No."

There is a somewhat disappointed, resigned sigh, as though the ninety second update is now going to take ten minutes. To his credit, he perches on one of the chairs directly in front of John. "You'll get more info from his admitting doc, and the intensivist in the ICU later. Earlier this evening, he collapsed, brought here, and was having trouble breathing. In the A&E --"

"If it helps," John says quickly, "I'm a physician. So, no one's told me, but ... pulmonary embolism?"

The muttered 'thank god' is indeed both grateful and relieved. The interventionalist changes languages, as John expects. And appreciates, using fewer words with more meaning. "Hypoxic, rib pain. Spiral CT, and then CTPA showed large," and he changes words and urgencies again, and clarifies, "_massive_ saddle PE." John blows out a collective breath - oh god, not good, that massive distinction - at the definitive diagnosis, one that he'd been suspecting. The doctor nods. "Exactly. One of the largest I've ... Anyway, placed a femoral introducer, a guide wire, stabiliser ring. Given his hypoxia and hypotension none of us felt that thrombolysis, thrombolytics, was going to be enough, so I ended up using a special device to perform a suction thrombectomy, retrieval of at least part of the clot we could get to."

John blinks, hearing the words, realising that this is a medical update, personally relevant. This is _Sherlock_ they are referring to. It sounds surreal, a contrived nightmare, fictional. He can well recall many soldiers, patients over the years, and the unsuccessful attempts at treating pulmonary embolism. Denial, his mind supplies. _Focus_, Watson.

"With me so far?" The doctor opposite him frowns just a little, and slows down until he senses John is attentive again. "So we got out some clot, but there's a lot still there, not only main but both right and left pulmonary artery branches. He'll have direct infusion of thrombolytics, alteplase specifically, directly into the clot using catheters that have multiple holes for best, direct drug to clot contact. Like a corrugated irrigation hose." John has heard of it, and nods. "It's a big deal. Large clot burden. Potent medication."

John finds his words then. "You'll re-study in a number of hours?" It occurs to him that he is in clinical mode and very much not personal, although he wants that update almost more than the rest. Vaguely, his brain reminds him that compartmentalising is protective and something of a coping skill. There will be time later to analyse his responses.

"Eight to ten probably. He'll come down to the department probably three or four more times so we can evaluate effectiveness of therapy." He glances back toward the room, prioritising the update he's giving. "There was quite a bit of bleeding when we cannulated the femoral artery, lost some blood unfortunately. And he started off a little anaemic, I'm giving him a unit of packed cells as we speak."

"Mentating?"

There is a non-committal tilt of his head. "Hypoxic, still. Mostly, yes. Required a bit of sedation and opioids to tolerate the procedure. A delicate balance, as you know given that we don't want to compromise his respiratory drive."

John hedges. "Did he require a lot, of the narcotics I mean?" 

The physician smiles just a little, understanding John's tactful question. "We know about his remote history, if that's a concern."

"Of course it's a concern."

"Small, incremental doses, titrated for effect." 

"Sorry, I know, it's just ..."

He assures John again as John tries to imagine Sherlock uncomfortable and not easily managed with routine opioid-naive pharmacology. "It came up on his history. None of what's going on could be even remotely comfortable, so he needed it."

"Nothing recent." John feels a lot of things welling up, squelches down the defensiveness. "That I know of."

"I understand," he said with a nod. Then, knowing all of them had multiple things to do, the doc stands. "So mentating, yes. Awake. Hypoxic as I said, sats high 80s on high flow. Tachypneic." He reaches out a hand. "Sorry for the rush, I have to finish, enter orders, facilitate getting him to ICU. And I know you want to see him."

"I do, yes." The handshaking is brief.

"Forewarned, heading to ICU, a lot of settling to be done. Intubation's not off the table, either, depending on work of breathing and the next few hours. Echo's still pending. But I can already tell you there's impressive RV strain, I could see it, the enlargement, on fluoro."

John thanks him for the update and tries to steady himself, prepare himself for more waiting. As the physician smiles and begins to walk away, John catches sight of some ink on his upper left arm. It is military and John notes the man's age, bearing, and makes a connection. "Army doc?"

"Yes, Riyadh." He frowns, realising the limited visibility and the quick observing and making the connection, that John had just done. "You?"

"Kandahar."

"We were the lucky ones."

"Let's hope for some more good luck," John whispers, his head tilting toward the procedure room. The physician waves his hand in front of the sensor that opens the door, and John is still standing. Before he crosses through the door, he directs another question to the doc, "Can I come in?"

The negative shake of the head is quick. "Sterile procedure room, so no. And he's all exposed while they finish up, secure the lines, dress the groin access. We'll come out through this door though. You can follow them up to ICU when they're ready."

Through the open doors, John can see mostly just a bunch of surgical blue fields, towels, and several people attending to the center of the patient in the bed. Everyone is still masked and capped in there as the doctor takes the first door into the control room again and doesn't get close to what John is most interested in. Rather, in whom.

Oh, Sherlock.

++

Time passes so slowly, painfully, marching inefficiently and in an altered dimension in the waiting room. John texts Molly, where he has deposited Rosie for the night, a quickly composed,

**Pulmonary embolism. Thrombolytics and clot retrieval.** John doesn't throw the words "massive" "saddle" or "large clot burden" in although Molly would have understood.

**Tell him hello - you're with him?**

**Still waiting, but I'll tell him soon. thanks again for the last minute plans, Rosie ok?**

It takes either thirty seconds or four hours, and her reply is typical, reassuring as can be expected under the circumstances, **We're fine, and she's such a little person these days, going to bed soon. Don't worry about her**

He leaves that alone, and glances up from the mobile as a nurse enters the room, name badge noting ICU, along with a transport monitor. A respiratory therapist follows him. "I'm Rob, here for Holmes?"

"Me too," John says with a small smile.

"We'll catch you on the way back out, you can help push the bed up to ICU." There is a sparkle in the nurse's eye, and a good deal of confidence. They stop, don head coverings and masks, then disappear into the procedure room.

John watches the door, listening, worrying, unable to sit still and so he stands, paces, then shuffles a bit back and forth between the doorways, the uncomfortable plastic chairs, and feeling acutely aware that he too is somewhat winded, that his own breathing is tight. Anxiety, he tells himself, and of course that is all it is.

_As soon as I see him, really see him, can get a look at him and see that he's okay, I'll feel much better._ Or so John tells himself.

++

The bed, three staff members, and a portable oxygen modality that John identifies as high flow spill over into the room. John's mouth is dry as he tries to swallow, sensing the instability, the urgency of the situation and the way they barely stop moving as he joins the group. No one particularly points it out, but John can see that some emergency equipment is on the bed now, an ambu bag, extra oxygen tank in a holder, a defibrillator with pads, and a bright red jump bag marked emergency ACLS meds.

"I'll come up with you," one of the interventional staff offers to Rob.

John sort of expects Rob to turn it down, three people (he, Rob, and respiratory) should be quite sufficient. It is telling when Rob nods, his face serious, eyes taking in the patient and the lines and the fact that it's a transport, and he nods.

For as much as John thought he'd feel better seeing Sherlock, once he finally is close enough to get an actual look at him, it doesn't feel better at all. His work of breathing is ... not exactly laboured but significant, the usual reflexive, automatic muscles required for respiration are very deliberate, intentional, and seem to require some concentration. His colour is the more alarming thing: his skin, usually pale, has a hue of flush, a tinge of circumoral cyanosis. The oxygen tubing that he is wearing is large, silicone plastic, an oversized nasal cannula capable of very high flow rates with some pressure that forces air in through the nose. His usually sharp eyes are half-mast, restless and glazed.

Rob takes account of those present, that everyone is ready, and doesn't mess around. "Let's go." The pace picks up as they leave the radiology suite.

The trip to the ICU will only be a few hallways, two floors in the lift, another short hall, Rob tells them. No one else speaks.

John wriggles into the lift, near as he can get to the head of the bed, hoping that Sherlock's eyes will be able to find him, if he is even interested or able. Sherlock's gaze, though, is still a little random, his blinking indicating some sort of mental fog. The lift is quick, and it is just as the soft chime announces their arrival to the destination floor that Sherlock's pale eyes do finally land on John's face.

There is at least, fortunately, recognition, but he is not processing everything, not well. Pupils are dilated, the awareness of discomfort, a frown of concern, of things that should be involuntary - respiration, ventilation - very much in this moment requiring effort and focus. They only see each other for a few seconds before the group leaves the lift, the wheels of the bed bumping slightly over the gap in the floor, but John sees enough to realise a very profound thing:

Sherlock is afraid.

John feels a coldness grip his chest as he understands the severity of that very sentiment. And if Sherlock, even with an altered thought process is afraid, that certainly John has every reason to be afraid too.

Oh god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transport of a critical patient can be a frightening time. Split second decision making, managing an emergency in a hallway (or worse, lift) is just not optimal.
> 
> Pulmonary embolism - blood clot in the lungs. It often forms in the legs and breaks free, travels through central circulation through both right atria and right ventricle to lodge in the much smaller arteries in the lungs (as the vessels narrow into smaller arteries before gas exchange occurs). A PE, then, actually blocks the flow of blood before it can get oxygenated. Massive saddle PE and large clot burden are all bad descriptions of a very serious condition. As has been described here, often a PE is treated with thrombolytics such as alteplase. If medication isn't enough, the patient is unstable, or there is evidence of RV strain (which is the chamber of the heart trying to force blood forward and past the clot/PE), suction thrombectomy is one of the procedures that can be used to help alleviate the problem.
> 
> High flow nasal cannula is just as John observes - a big version of a regular oxygen cannula that can deliver oxygen that is humidified and heated at very high flow rates and concentrations. It is a good modality for Sherlock right now given the mechanical obstruction in his lungs and problems with ventilation and perfusion.
> 
> It is also very common for patients with a PE to be frightened. They are usually quite aware of the severity of the problem. That, combined with feeling "air hungry," is a very uncomfortable feeling. And, as John discovers, it is also very uncomfortable and unsettling to watch.


	4. Not Nearly Long Enough

Platelets are one of the more unique blood components in the human body. As expected given what it is named, each cell is indeed "plate shaped" with a complicated surface of nooks, crannies, grooves, and notches. Their cell borders are complicated, intricate, and jaggedly organised. They connect with each other to form a mesh, a protection, an endogenous bandage, a plug capable of staunching bleeding, of clinging, of forming a very strong haemostatic bond. When appropriately triggered, through vasoconstriction, inflammatory markers, or other chemical triggers, platelets are attracted to and go searching for one another, blood cells in blood volume, seeking, linking, joining.

Fixing. It's as if the platelet can say, Oh, I detect a defect, a hole, inflammation, or bleeding. Let me gather a group of friends, some like-minded friends, and we'll be right there, and join forces. We can fix this.

Primary haemostasis.

Or, in other terms, an end result of affinity. 

++

The tube is crowded crossing London, and Sherlock sees a few people standing, a woman with graying hair and a kind face. He coughs a few times as he's done over the past several annoying days - drat these symptoms, must've picked up Rosie's cold, although his is a painful dry cough - and offers his seat to her. With a grateful smile, she eases into it and finally relaxes, her face giving indication that she's been having pain. Sherlock gives her a quick glance again, _neck vein distention, swollen ankles, heart failure, insomnia_ \- until another annoying, downright obnoxious coughing spasm interrupts his deductions. His ribs hurt, in the front, in the back, from coughing and it is acute, exquisite pain at the height of inspiration. When his keeps his breaths shallow and light, the pain is minimised.

The cough wracks him a few times, and he murmurs an apology to the man standing near him who is casting a sly look. His eyes cut quickly to the tube system map, and he considers getting out of the crowded car and just walking a few blocks to get some fresh air and away from people. He could cut back underground if needed, catch something closer to Baker Street. Or perhaps, he thinks, beginning to feel a mite more peaked, a cab. His chest is aching more and he feels exhausted out of proportion to what he should be. As if his tank is half full and he's oddly a bit lightheaded.

At the next stop, Euston Square, he exits the car, not realising how terrible his cough actually sounded until someone actually grabs his elbow, asks if he is all right. "You should maybe get that looked at, mate." It is more out of annoyance than concern, given that the speaker keeps on moving past, away.

_Not your mate. And I have a physician waiting for me at home_. He frowns again, feeling the crampy pain in the side of his chest, worsening with each inhale. His leg had been hurting the other day, actually had awakened him at night with a sharp spasm and intense cramp even. Since then, the leg pain has waxed, waned, but the tube ride aggravated it. He realises that now his chest is bothering him more, consoling himself that, if nothing else, the cough and the chest symptoms have taken his mind off of that intermittent, nagging leg discomfort.

He has only gone a couple of blocks when he feels his steps become disconnected. His vision changes, closing in around the edges, his feet extraordinarily heavy.

And then there is pavement. But he is already completely unaware of it as it comes rushing up to meet him.

++

John is just clearing up Rosie's dinner of some finely chopped chicken, squash, rice. He has taken to giving her a self-feeder, too, in which he can place various soft foods and she can gnaw on them through the large holes of the finely woven silicone pouch. It keeps her hands busy and takes the stress off him to be everywhere in keeping her hands away from her feeding spoon or sippy cup. For himself, he simply found the oldest takeaway still in the refrigerator that was still safe for human consumption and ate in between talking with Rosie and listening to her ever increasing plethora of sounds and vocal experimentation. Mrs. Hudson has told him previously that Rosie at times sounds like one of those exotic bird exhibits at the zoo with all her sounds, and she serenades him for the sole purpose of getting a reaction.

He wonders what Sherlock will make of the latest one, something that sounds like a cross between a soft M sound and a growl. He will probably identify it as something complicated and indicative of high-level thought processes. There are times when John doesn't have the heart to tell him that some of the growls go along with filling a nappy or that she is simply mimicking the sounds he makes when he plays with her in the evenings.

His musings are interrupted by the unexpected, unusual sound of his mobile.

Ringing.

A glance at the caller ID, and he is immediately, instantly alarmed.

Mycroft.

++

Rob's stride is quick, efficient, and direct as he controls the bed's arrival in the ICU bay. The doors are already broken in and waiting open, there is a ventilator on stand-by in the back corner of the room and when John catches a glimpse of it he can feel the faintest amount of stomach acid in his lower oesophagus. He chooses not to look at it and desperately hopes it won't be needed. A few additional nurses descend to offer help, and Rob delegates a few things - monitor set up, linens, lights, belongings stowed in a closet, lines, and IV pumps being placed where he wants them. One of the other nurses places a boot on each foot that connects to a machine to keep blood from becoming stagnant there. Rob slides the portable monitor into the bracket where it will interface and connect to the brighter bedside monitor display, which in turn will also communicate with the units in the hallway and central nurses station.

"Ready for a turn?" one of the technicians asks. John considers this perky young staff member and Sherlock's voice, in his head, mutters, _Nursing student. Overanxious. Barely twenty years old._

"No." Rob jerks his head at the monitor, where the oxygen level is flashing, reading only eighty-four percent, and everyone, John included, understands what the answer was and why. 

He wouldn't tolerate the turn, the activity. And it would actually be quite detrimental at this point. Sherlock has already depleted most of his oxygen reserve.

"Maybe later."

The doors are swung back into place, the curtain drawn, and the respiratory therapist stays for a while adjusting settings and waiting, hovering.

John gets a look at the monitor then finally, trying to stay back out of the way and fully expecting that at any moment he will be banished from the room due to instability, policy, or just being present in the first moments where getting settled usually involves staff and patient only, taking disorder and chaos to a systematic, organised set-up and usually preferring to do that without an audience. Sherlock is still bundled under a few blankets and modalities, but the monitor, at least that, John can see.

His heart rate is high, very high, narrow complex, and regular. All of the readings are abnormal - too high, too low, too fast. His oxygen level is low, high respiratory rate, very low blood pressure. He watches one of the nurses label some IV pumps and tubings, heparin, alteplase, fluids, and the blood that had been started in the other department is still dripping in at a good clip, with the bag maybe halfway done.

"A hundred percent, seventy litres," the respiratory therapist says. "About as high as I can go."

The curtain opens and another provider enters. It is a tiny, petite little woman with bright eyes and a pony tail. She glances quickly at Rob, the monitor, the patient, the oxygen, at John, and then back to Sherlock. She settles there as she studies him intently, and moves close, within his line of vision. "Mr. Holmes, I'm Dr. Nguyen. I’m the intensivist on tonight." She has taken one of his hands and is staring down at him, close, addressing him directly. "You're in the ICU now." She watches while Rob pulls aside the blankets again to look at the groin site where there is a catheter and medication infusing. "You have to keep this leg entirely straight, okay? We'll help you. But that's your only job. That and breathing."

John hears a faint murmur, Sherlock saying something too quiet for him to hear.

"Yes, I know you feel like you can't breathe. There's a large blood clot in the way, in your lungs. But we're working on it. With medicine and with that procedure you just had." She makes a couple of notes and repockets her biro. "I'll be here all night either here or in one of our other units, but keeping watch over you, and Rob's going to help us keep an eye on things. I suggest you don't try to talk too much." She looks directly at John then, not unpleasantly, and turns back to the patient. "Save your energy for breathing okay?" The message is loud and clear, to John as well: energy conservation and stress reduction.

There are another few words spoken, and John wishes he was closer, enough to hear.

"I don't know. We're doing all we can. And if it gets worse, we can help you with a breathing tube and more sedation if we have to. But hopefully not." She murmurs a few things to Rob, who answers back. John can only overhear some of it, a plan for lab work and additional meds, at the chest xray they'll be needing but not yet, the discussion of which vasopressor they will start if his blood pressure doesn't rise on its own. "So you have a visitor here," and she holds out a hand in John's direction.

"John Watson," he speaks his name.

"All right if I get your medical history and what-not from him?" She looks between the two of them, and John is hyper aware, just based on her demeanour, words, expressions, and attentiveness, that she is worried.

There is another faint nod and the heart monitor alarms again, high respiratory rate, which Rob silences and adjusts.

Rob seems satisfied with the groin access, and checks for pulses in Sherlock's feet before moving back to the head of the bed to dim the lights. "This should be easier on everyone's eyes, okay?" he says. "I'm just going to review a few orders while you guys talk. A bit later maybe some pain medicine, if you need. And you're shivering, I'll bring a warm blanket."

One of the techs on the floor brings John a cup of water with a straw, and he is ready to review Sherlock's history with the physician, who asks one question and then interrupts John's first answer with another question. "What kind of healthcare provider are you?" Had it been another setting, John might've chuckled - he knows they all speak a different language and of course, here, with Sherlock unstable and tenuous, John is certainly not about to turn that part off.

"Right now, locum work at a clinic in Westminster. Army surgeon before that." He thinks oddly that he is fortunate to have a stretch of days ahead where he isn't scheduled to work. Though he would have no qualms about requesting off emergently.

She smiles knowingly, his responses and reactions making more sense, so she nods, and says, "Thanks for what you all did over there, in case no one's said it to you lately." They exchange small smiles of acknowledgement and then she says, "So history comes up electronically. No allergies." She confirms his date of birth. "Appy, age 16, some drug and alcohol services, a very remote overdose, recreational it says. Rehab, early 20s. And again last year, outpatient." She scrolls through the computer report. "Oh, and a GSW not quite two years ago."

"With pericardial effusion and cardiac arrest then."

"Ever worked up what caused the effusion?"

"It was presumed sequelae from mechanism of injury. No, I don't think we ever questioned it." John sighs. There was no reason to look farther, best they knew at the time. "Takes no routine meds. No active drug use of any type, and only occasional alcohol, best of my knowledge."

"You live together?"

"Yes." John realises after he says it that perhaps he should clarify the answer then determines that the technicality doesn't really matter.

"Recent complaints?"

"He's been out of town, working. Didn't mention feeling poorly last we swapped texts."

Kathy nods, and summarises the work-up in the A&E. “Profound hypotension, responded to some fluids. Opening labs okay, probably dehydrated, but not terrible. Head CT was done for presenting loss of consciousness pre-hospital, negative for anything traumatic, no abnormal findings. Tox screen is still pending.”

Rob comes back to the room, pokes his head in. "Echo's on their way up. And I have a couple of medications, something scheduled around the clock, a mild pain med to take the edge off, a proton pump inhibitor, prevents reflux and gastritis while he's gotta stay flat." Rob is directing his words to John, to both of them.

Dr. Nguyen nods to John while she watches Sherlock, the monitor, his demeanor, his efforts as Rob works with Sherlock's IV tubings and sites. "Seems to be resting a little right now. Much as we can, we try not to disturb him." John agrees, seeing that Sherlock is actually breathing ... no worse anyway, and that his eyes are comfortably closed. "We're here all night. There is a waiting room, some recliners out there if you want, we'll come and get you if he asks or if there's anything going on. But the echo's a good half hour, maybe close your eyes for a power nap?"

John desperately wants to stay in the room, to watch, to be close if Sherlock needs anything, and the thought of leaving, of missing something, of being needed and not being there, is ... well ... sobering at the least. The sentiment must be plain on his face, because before he can even whisper 'no thanks' the doctor pats his arm gently, "It's fine if you stay, too. We'll get you a chair, one more comfortable than that." She indicates the folding one, low-backed, that is tucked into the corner.

He nods at the support, permission, and settles into the raised, tall chair that is brought in and placed out of the way, the opposite side of where the echosonographer and ultrasound equipment will be. "Thanks."

"We're keeping an eye on him, he's okay for now. We're doing the very best we can." Dr. Nguyen waits until he acknowledges her, and then she adds, "I don't need to say, this is ..." Many words could fill in the end of that sentence. "Serious," is what she settles on.

"I know," he says quietly. And he does. A frown, a crease shows up on John's face, and he is momentarily unable to speak anything else for the emotion right under the surface. 

It must be visible on his face, to the intensivist. She considers him a moment. "Have you guys been together a long time?"

He settles back against the chair, tries to relax his shoulders, and gives her what he hopes is an encouraging smile as he sits back. And finds his words, then. "Not nearly long enough." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, behold the mighty Platelet.
> 
> The last thing a seasoned nurse wants to do to a patient who has no oxygen reserve and is teetering on the cliff of instability is a stressful turn, reposition, or bath. It is a recipe for disaster. This same seasoned nurse will banish you from the room if you continue to talk to this patient after being advised not to. John knows quite well that it is really important to follow those directions.
> 
> Healthcare language - it is extremely difficult to hide.


	5. Until You Wake Up

Violin rosin has a distinct waxy, aromatic pungency to it. Slightly pine mixed with sweetness. He takes the brick of rosin - purchased from a quality supplier, none of that cheap corner music store variety - and slides off the cover.

Immediately, his nose is aware of the associations. It calls him, reminds him of the tapestry of his life as it has been woven with and into music. He does not lift it close to his nose, does not inhale deliberately.

He doesn't need to.

He runs his bow gently, angled just so, as he's been taught from the beginning, drawing just the right amount onto the hair fibres. Not too much, not too little, each pass giving lift and aerating the scent just a little more.

Age four, his music teacher coming to the house, the stand and the one-quarter size violin. He recalls being corrected on his posture, on playing in front of a cheval mirror, of seeing approval in his music teacher's gaze as he repeated a segment until it was correct.

Age ten, the recital. Both parents in the audience and Mycroft, the slightest fingering problem, the quick correction, the moving forward in the piece, the way his cheeks heated. His teacher afterward, assuring him that most people did not have the slightest inclination that he'd made a very tiny mistake, that he'd recovered well and did not let it affect him. His father, mildly disappointed, his mother, warm and snuggly and hugging his own perfectionistic tendencies away. He'd allowed the hug, the assurance that it was okay, and his fingers carried the scent of horsehair, of rosin, of music, of the polishing cloth, of the easy acceptance from his mother.

Age fourteen, school orchestra, he recalls being first chair, of the snippiness of the musician in second chair. As concertmaster for a performance, the orchestra seated, awaiting him. Even years later, the recall is exquisite. He recalls that he has tuned his own instrument, perfect pitch, to a digital tuner, unnecessary. He enters, faces the orchestra. All seats are full except one - his. He pulls the bow across the strings, a perfect, pure A string humms and whirrs and holds it out with near perfect vibrato and clarity. The room resonates and echoes and becomes rich with other instruments adding to his A, to the fullness. And with orchestral beauty, a moment, and the chord explodes. It all started with his note, his instrument, his tuning. The rosin scent clings to him, his clothes, his skin, his fingers.

Age thirty three, John, upstairs, is having another nightmare, tossing, the occasional moan or groan and Sherlock reaches for the violin, the bow and case and rosin, tunes quickly. He soothes and plays and serenades, softly and quietly, from a distance, the notes and melodies usher the man upstairs back to a deeper stage of slumber, of rest. He plays more, letting his music become quieter until it finally ceases. The echo and the overtones and the air is still heavy with the sound, the scent, the caring. Upstairs, all is silent.

Rosin. The trigger of scent associations, one with the music, a straight line between all of these things. It is fond, and comforting, and almost immediate when he picks up his instrument.

Affinity.

++

John tries to close his eyes there in the room after the echo, which Dr. Nguyen - Kathy - has read as RV strain and mildly reduced ejection fraction. Sherlock was a little more awake and John was working hard at updating him, keeping conversation to a minimum, assuring him that he'll be getting some relief soon. "So the plan," the intensivist, Dr. Nguyen, explains to John who is listening and Sherlock who is not exactly paying attention to anything but his discomfort and his breathing, "is to let these meds get in, infuse the clot, dissolve it, restore blood flow. IR will take another look at him later tomorrow. Or today, later this morning." She shakes her head at herself. "Bloody night shift. Despite his risk factors for clot, the travel, the recent nicotine, primarily, I'm going to bring in a haematologist in the morning. We could be looking at platelet dysfunction or something intrinsic that is contributing here."

John immediately begins to tick off diagnoses, from Factor deficiencies to blood dyscrasias to leukemia or something else entirely with oncologic origins. He knows that haematologists are almost always also oncologists and finds it distracting that the doctor only identifies one speciality.

"Don't borrow trouble, I can see what you're doing. It could very well be only the travel, the sedentary weekend, the cigarettes. But I suspect it might have been brewing, given the discolouration on his calf."

"What?" This is news to John.

"He has petechiae, on his calf. They are unlikely to be brand new."

At John's frown of being given fresh and surprising data, she lifts the covers back from both Sherlock's legs and presses down on the mattress so that he can see the random patterns, the tiny bursts of red and purple over Sherlock's right calf.

"Ultrasound studies, venous, also in the morning, see how much clot is still there and how extensive it is."

John hears Sherlock mutter something and he side-steps to the head of the bed while the doc straightens the covers, recovering Sherlock's legs. "You okay?"

"I hear the kettle. Make me some tea and ..."

John interrupts, looking to reorient him rather than let him talk too much. "You're in the hospital, Sherlock. Blood clot in the lungs."

"Tell Mrs. Hudson I want ginger biscuits."

That demand, John thinks can be arranged. "In the morning, okay." Watching Sherlock breathe, John is quite aware of how comfortable his own breathing is, the deep breath, the lack of pain, the satisfactory oxygenation, the relaxed inhale/exhale pattern. The involuntary reflex complete taken for granted until ... until it isn't. Sherlock's is the opposite - he is tight, laboured, and air hungry.

And, given his hypoxia and confusion, ineffective in cerebral oxygen delivery. He and Kathy exchange looks. Unless something changes quickly, they are probably looking at more invasive therapy.

++

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could switch places with Sherlock. To relieve his suffering.

The desire to switch places, not entirely a new concept. He remembers that brief time, when it had come to light about why Sherlock stepped off the roof at Barts, that he was doing it as a sacrifice, saving John from the threat, taking John's place, as it were. He remembers too vividly at Sherrinford, in the room with Eurus, Sherlock, and Mycroft. Her ultimatum and Mycroft's clever, cynical, hateful words in which he tried to goad Sherlock into shooting him over shooting John. The sacrifice. The manipulation.

An exchange.

Although he knows it is an impossibility, he wishes he could trade places with Sherlock. To take the shortness of breath and the restrictions on his movements and the discomfort. And the long road ahead - hopefully - long road of recovery. And although he realises that an actual exchange is not possible, he also knows that he will be waiting.

++

The recliner in the waiting room creaks a little as John shifts, hearing something, someone, across the room. "You can go home, you know. Get some sleep." It is one of the staff he met earlier, the charge nurse, probably sent by Rob to come out and check on him, give him an update. He'd agreed to a short trial out of the room in the hopes that Sherlock might sleep - or at least, sleep easier - without knowing he was in the room.

The words are startling until John's slow brain processes and he realises that he is absolutely exhausted and no good to almost anyone in this state. "He's --?"

"The same. And no, he's not sleeping either."

John stands up, shaking feeling back into his arms as he cocks his neck, trying to crack the stiffness out of it, tries to blink the dryness out of his eyes.

"You may as well come back in if you want," the nurse says. "Rob's been there with Kathy, Dr. Nguyen. The confusion comes and goes, but I heard them talking about trying to hold off on intubation, his oxygen level's marginally better. She was saying if we can just ride it out until the clot burden is less, things might be plateau'd now, but they should improve."

"I understand," John responds. Sherlock is in a very gray area - since improvement is expected, holding off makes sense for now. But it is a gamble, an educated, intentional gamble, waiting. For John, the stakes have never been higher. "I'll be right along, then."

He splashes water on his face, uses the loo, does a few unremarkable and uninspired stretches to get blood flowing, and re-enters the ICU. Rob is standing at the computer at Sherlock's doorway. The room is still dimly lit, from a slide toggle switch over the sinks and the array of equipment. John takes a quick glance - the blood is done, the two IV pumps of blood thinners still infusing, along with a bag of just plain IV fluids.

"Hey," he says quietly to Sherlock.

Pale eyes blink back at him. John can see exhaustion and discomfort and an overall sense that he is not well. "Hi," he whispers back. His respirations are still shallow and he is working, chest excursions and intercostals. A small, tabletop oscillating fan has been brought in and is giving the illusion of more air movement.

"Is the fan helping?"

"No." Sherlock's eyes are even more glassy and he brings up his hand toward the oxygen in his nose. John doesn't blame him, although it is soft silicone, it is still a large apparatus and fairly snug in his nares. "I need ..." John grabs his hand before he can dislodge it. "My keys are in the kitchen ..."

"Leave that in. You need it. Oxygen." Sherlock fusses a little, his hand working to wriggle out of John's grasp, and John tries a diversion. "Oxygen for your brain."

"I'm tired."

"I know," John cannot resist brushing Sherlock's fringe off his face, adjusting the nasal cannula that it tight against his cheeks. "Rest if you can."

"I want to go upstairs now."

"You're in the hospital," John tries to explain things, keeping it to the basics, "This is your room. You're -- hey, leave that alone," but it only buys them a few minutes before Sherlock tries to get at his oxygen again.

John keeps his fingers loosely on Sherlock's hand, which for the moment is resting at his side, so John takes a moment to glance up. The monitor is also mostly unchanged, although his heart rate is up ten or more beats per minute than it had been earlier. "Fever?" John asks Rob. "Little tachy."

"Thirty seven, five. So no. And we often see low grade fever with any type of clot, so there's that." He presses a few keys on the electronic documentation database. "Last hemoglobin is good. Fibrinogen still very much normal too." Rob had explained that their patients with infusions of the meds Sherlock was getting had labs drawn at least every six hours. "We just drew and sent an ABG, see if he's compensating all right. He's working, true, but it's not getting worse. Not really." John nods, knowing that they are all still working together to try to avoid putting Sherlock on a ventilator, which opens the doorway to so many more complications even though he might need the ventilatory support. “The tachycardia, perhaps, is probably this," Rob says with a chuckle, holding a clean, unused urinal out. "Perhaps you'll have better success getting him to use it."

Rob doesn't notice John's slightly frightened and mildly uncomfortable expression.

"He's got about another hour before there's threat of a straight cath. Bladder scanned for just under four-hundred last check." Rob comes up to pat Sherlock on the shoulder, and he shows Sherlock the bottle then hands it to John. "No problem, but seriously, maybe try again to pee, okay? You'll be more comfortable." With a few fingers, he turns on the water in the sink for the sound association. "I can help if you'd --"

"No."

"Then I'll give you guys a minute."

The curtain whisks closed behind him.

"If I could just stand up," Sherlock complains and his eyes are more focused. "Or even sit up."

"Out of the question." John holds the plastic gadget and raises a brow. "Flat. With that IV catheter," and John touches lightly Sherlock's leg, "here at the top of your leg, it feeds that medicine directly into the blood clots in your lungs, you have to be absolutely as still as possible, give it time to work."

"I just need ..." He presses an elbow into the mattress as if he's going to get up.

John holds him supine. "It's a big deal, staying sill. I'm sorry. But moving jeopardises the effectiveness."

"Stupid."

"Not if it works." He feels a terrible bout of compassion for Sherlock, stuck here, feeling the restrictions of activity and the even worse physical limitations and the intermittent hypoxia that are playing with his thoughts. 

"Put this rail down, let me ... I'll just ... my bathroom is right through there," he said, indicating the direction of where is bathroom doorway actually is that his bedroom connects to. Although, at home and definitely not here. "I'll get right back in bed, I swear it." He punctuates his phrase with his left leg which goes - or almost goes - up and over the edge of the bed. John glances toward the foot of the bed and sees that his right leg, at the top of which is the access device, the medications infusing, is tied to the footboard of the bed. "John!" Frustrated, he snarls and pulls - or tries to pull - with his right leg.

"No, listen," and John pushes past his discomfort, knowing that this is far, far worse for Sherlock, "I'll help you, hold the urinal right where you need it, so you can pee. But you have to stay flat."

Sherlock blinks twice and then frowns. "Hospital."

"Yes."

"Bedrest."

"Yes."

"I can help you with this." John holds up the bottle again.

"No." He seems a little mentally clearer, for the moment and the glaze is gone from his eyes. "I can wait."

"Not for much longer, actually."_ Hopefully._ John trusts he is casual enough. "Don't make this a bigger deal than it is." Sherlock protests more, and John cuts him off as he slides on gloves from the holder right next to the sink. "Just stop it. It's that or a catheter." The frown on Sherlock's face, clearly a comprehension issue, although they have been talking a lot about IV catheters too. "A little tube they slide in through your penis. Drains urine."

Another few blinks. "You're kidding me."

"Afraid not." Sherlock is hugely uncomfortable, his expression almost pained. "Look," John tells him, "if you'd rather, I can get the nurse to come in and help you. It's more about the end result than how we get there."

"Fine. _You_." John can hear the subtext, that it's actually anything but fine, but in keeping with the tenuous permission, he proceeds. No further words are exchanged as John exposes as little as possible, guides the appropriate body part into the urinal, then replaces the linens so that Sherlock is completely covered again. As much as he can, he angles his body and turns his head, his gloved hand holding the bottle feeling some faint temperature and pressure changes as Sherlock eventually and finally complies, successful in what they have been hoping for.

"Okay," is all Sherlock says, and John doesn't respond other than removing the now almost-full bottle and setting it aside.

He whisks off his gloves, washes his hands. "I would say good job and congratulations, but I wouldn't want to be petty about it. Urinating is not a marketable skill," John tells him. "You have to feel a little better though."

"Mm-Hmm. But cold," Sherlock mutters, his eyes closing. "Freezing." The minimal activity, although all he did was lie there, has worsened his shortness of breath again.

John adjusts the blankets again, checking that Sherlock's feet are protected against drafts, and that his hands are unencumbered under the blankets. Mostly, John has been on the right side of the bed, dealing with Sherlock's right arm and because most of the equipment is on the right side of the bed, he had not yet moved to the other. But now, as he wants to make sure Sherlock is warm enough, he circles around the bed and reaches his hands under the blankets to help adjust Sherlock's left arm and tuck it all the way in.

His first thought is that somehow Sherlock has managed to play a joke on all of them, that this is a terrible experiment gone awry. He wonders if he had sneaked a manikin arm into the bed and was hiding his own arm under the side of his body. And his second thought right on the heels of the first is that although Sherlock is clever, this is not a joke. He is too sick and he is ... well, not as dark or macabre as that would be. His fingers, hand, arm, feel quite different in temperature and turgor. John knows his own breath hitches as his hand splays out over Sherlock's wrist. Something ... is ... very ... _wrong here._

John investigates immediately. Sherlock's arm is abnormally cool approaching cold from fingertips, over wrist, mid-forearm, and doesn't even begin to get slightly warmer until he reaches the elbow. Without conscious decision, John pulls back the covers to expose his entire arm and searches quickly for Sherlock's radial pulse, ulnar pulse, and, finding none, he turns the overbed lights back on and opens the curtain.

Rob has seen the activity, spies the urinal, and is ready to say something positive when John's voice cuts through the intention. "His arm is ice-cold. I think we need Dr. Nguyen." 

Rob's brow rises, and John gestures at Sherlock's now exposed left wrist. "No pulse. You try," he offers, thinking over and over,_ please let him find one, please let him find one, please._ Rob briefly joins John at the bed after grabbing the doppler and some gel from the counter. The probe, lots of gel, John holding Sherlock's arm and hand carefully so as not to impede any signal or circulation, and the machine stubbornly gives them only monotoned static and white noise at the highest volume. There is no arterial flow, nothing pulsatile. Not radial, not ulnar. Not even low pitched venous turbulence. None.

_Shit_, Rob breathes, the word quiet although probably not meant to have been spoken out loud. John does not disagree, not by a longshot. "I'll let her know, and be right back." He catches John's worried expression, shares it. "Interesting it doesn't seem to be hurting him."

"I know." John well recalls that most patients who lose arterial flow have excruciating pain, as distal tissues begin to lose oxygen, perfusion. The word for cellular death, apoptosis, comes to mind. He hears Rob's steps in the hallway, quick, urgent.

Sherlock is resting, sort of dozing, and John figures he is sort of paying attention but he doesn't ask any questions or otherwise draw attention to their newest concern. Of possible devastating new findings.

"She's on her way. Brought a warm blanket."

Together they wrap Sherlock's left arm in the heated blanket and tuck it in. It is perfunctory and probably a token gesture, John knows, but it still feels like something. He considers this new development, arterial occlusion for some reason, and knows that this was indeed an ominous sign. Dr. Nguyen arrives, does her own basic assessment, and addresses Sherlock with all the questions John had wanted to ask but had held back, not to have asked Sherlock the same things twice.

Pain, no. Numbness, sort of. Alteration in sensation, yes. Feeling cold, whole body is cold. She runs him through some basic movement tests, fingers and wrist and hand.

"I'm going to have our vascular surgeon come in, take a look. I think we're looking at least at an arteriogram," she tells John. "See how far down ..." Gesturing, she starts at her own shoulder and brushes down toward her elbow. "But I'm having him come evaluate things first."

The nurse has come back, also listening, and at a pause in her words, Rob gestures at the capped intravenous site in Sherlock’s cooler arm. “Should probably ...”

The doctor nods, “Yes, absolutely.” She speaks again to John, “Need to get rid of the peripheral IV site there, prevent further problems. Risk of thrombophlebitis.” John glances at the other arm, where there are already several sites, and he understands.

The heart monitor alarms then, with Sherlock's heart rate elevated again. His oxygen levels have been marginally acceptable but still low, and now with the higher heart rate and decreased cardiac output, the pulse oximetry readings begin to decline. "You okay?" John says.

"What is it? What's wrong?" There is a little fear again, back in his tone of voice and in the set of his face. "John?" Sherlock's voice sounds young and uncertain, whether from anxiety or from laying flat or something else, but it carries with it a large amount of emotion.

John looks at the doctor, not liking any of the answers and unsure which to give at this point. "Your hand, the artery in your arm, doesn't seem to be delivering blood normally. Not right now anyway." John lets Dr. Nguyen do the explaining, in part because of the very large lump in his throat and in part because he knows Sherlock wants honesty and John mostly wants to not lay out all the bad options and findings in the open just yet. "Sometimes an artery can spasm, or it could be a blockage. I'm going to have another surgeon, one of our other docs, come take a look at you."

John is standing close enough to hear Sherlock's question. "Is it another clot?" Functioning on all cylinders, based on the logic.

She glances up at John as she answers, "It might be."

"John." Sherlock comes close to demanding his presence, his attention, and John moves to stand at his shoulder, glancing down at him. "I am not willing ... I don't want... I can't live with a brain ... impairment."

"You're going to be fine." He knows Sherlock has, even in his current state, put two and two together - the development of clot not just (presumably) in his leg and his lungs, but now his arm. If it were to lodge in his brain, it would be ... not just unwelcome. _Unacceptable_. "It doesn't mean --"

"Shut up. And listen. If something happens, more clot, more places, if it comes to it, I do not want ..." His breathing becomes even more laboured and his exhales are now sharper, through pursed lips in order to appease his air hunger a little bit.

John forces his face to smile, to convey calm, and he matter-of-factly responds. "I know. I understand." Sherlock is telling him that to live with a deficit is unacceptable. He nods and Sherlock stares at him, with desperation, until their eyes connect and hold long enough for some communication to happen on some level as he implores John to get it. "I still think ... this is all fixable. You're going to recover. It's treatable."

The oxygen level drops a bit more, and he feels Dr. Nguyen's hand on his arm. "His ABG is back, and he's working harder. He needs to be intubated. It'll let him rest, take over the breathing for a little." Although he wouldn't have challenged her on it, because he can see that Sherlock's work of breathing is not improving, nor is his oxygen level. This effort can't be sustained long term, and she holds out the printout so he can see for himself. For all the values being slightly abnormal, it is the arterial oxygen level that is the most abnormal, quite low, an indication that they can wait no longer.

Of course, despite her voice being very quiet, even with all the noise of the high-flow oxygen apparatus, Sherlock hears at least some of that. "John."

"I'm here." John moves again to stand in Sherlock's line of vision, close to the head of the bed. He hears the directive out in the hallway that they are calling for an anaesthesiologist to intubate, that they need the respiratory therapist, that the ventilator is already in the room on stand-by, that someone is retrieving some sedation from the medication pyxis. He stands looking into Sherlock's face, knowing Sherlock needs him to be strong here, to be his rock in the storm, even as he is listening - restraints, RSI protocols, appropriate staff, and all the rest. He holds Sherlock's hand and touches his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Explain first."

"You really need to rest, save your energy for breath--"

"_Explain_." His tone is now feral and demanding, and his eyes, just a little bit wild.

John sees him getting more worked up and nods, ready to explain to prevent him worsening and spiraling out of control, becoming more unstable. "All right. There's clot in your lung already, it's making you work hard, too hard, to breathe. They're going to slide a small breathing tube in," and John indicates Sherlock's mouth and throat and hopes that Sherlock will pardon the lie, that it might be small but does not ever feel small to the patient, "give you some more IV medication so you can rest, sleep, while the alteplase, that clot busting drug, is already working on the clot in your lung. Lungs." Sherlock doesn't respond with a nod or anything other than a blink, but he's heard, John can tell. Then he shakes his hand, the one wrapped in the warm blanket and makes a gesture as if requesting explanation about that too. "So yeah, the arm, looks like there might be some arterial _spasm_ there, or _maybe_ another clot, just like Dr. Nguyen said. Probably need to do a little more testing --"

"Stroke risk?" he whispers. For as much distress as Sherlock is in, he is for the moment anyway processing well, operating on all cylinders, making connections, given that he has just asked a rather insightful question.

John ponders what to say, and sees that Dr. Nguyen has come back to the bedside and is listening. "Probably somewhat elevated. But we're working on protecting you. Medication, and those pumps on your feet. We're treating the clot we know about. I'm going to get the surgeon's input on when to place a vena cava filter, which may give you some benefit just in case."

Sherlock's eyes flick to John's. "Will you be here when I ...?"

"When you wake up, of course. And until you wake up." Their eyes meet, an intense connection, a please stay, a please be okay.

"No impairment. I want to come back, wake up _normal_."

John can't help the jibe, and chuckles, "Normal's boring." At that, John sees the faintest eye crinkles as Sherlock is at least mildly amused, a token response. He hears more staff gathering at the doorway, knows it's almost time to get out of the way. "I know. You will. You'll be fine."

"Anything less than that is not okay." John reminds himself that Sherlock is still afraid, that he has what is known in healthcare as that sense of impending doom, aggravated by pain, hypoxia, immobility, stress, and - probably - the sense and the deep-rooted knowledge that he is acutely ill.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He holds Sherlock's warm hand, squeezes a few times, holds his eyes as long as he can before there is too much activity, too many people there to help. He takes a few steps backwards, watching medications be readied, restraints gently placed on Sherlock's wrists though not tied yet. The headboard of the bed is removed, the suction catheter and ambu bag be placed in the bed. All the activity is terrifying, and John hopes Sherlock is at least somewhat unaware of the entirety of it.

"We'll have you step out for a few minutes, then, John," Dr. Nguyen says to him kindly, gently. "Waiting room, okay? I'll come talk to you as soon as I can."

He drags a hand across his mouth, feeling his own altered breathing, the emotion threatening to spill over, the horror of where they are right now, but he nods and forces his feet to go where he doesn't want to, at all. Eventually he makes his way back to the small room outside of the ICU.

It is not empty any longer, and John is surprisingly and overwhelmingly relieved to see that he now has company. A distraction, if nothing else, to take his mind off what is going on in that room, what is happening to Sherlock without him.

Mycroft is waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh walking the tightrope of permissive hypoxia while waiting for resolution of this pulmonary embolism.
> 
> I was going to add a flashback, a snippet from before, but RL ... and it’s not a crucial point right now, I like this chapter in its linear form. Anyway ... will get that in next chapter.


	6. I Need a Favour

Inhalation is a very effective means to quickly and rapidly disperse a substance into the body. Large airways transport oxygen along with inspired air, where they split into smaller airways, again and again, each airway becoming smaller. The terminal, functional unit of the lung structure is the alveoli, a bubble-shaped air sac with an incredible representation of surface area which contains a vast amount of capillaries. The alveolar capillary membrane, aided by surfactant and moderated by surface tension, is where oxygen and carbon dioxide are exchanged, all without conscious effort. Higher pressure to lower pressure, higher concentration to lower, the exchange is automatic.

Studies indicate that nicotine can be both sedating and stimulating. Initially, there is a "kick," in which the adrenal glands sense a trigger and release a catecholamine, epinephrine. It causes tingling of the skin, an increase in heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure. This all occurs within minutes. There is an immediate release of glucose as well from stores within the liver. The pancreas is prompted to produce less insulin in order to ensure that the body is not robbed of glucose needed, that fight or flight reaction. Dopamine, a pleasure producing hormone, is also released. It is similar to that released following either heroin or cocaine use. There is an overall feeling of contentment. Stroke volume, myocardial oxygen demand and consumption rises. There may be a sense of euphoria, an increase in acetylcholine and norepinephrine which elicit wakefulness. Circulation is impacted, an increased clotting tendency, atherosclerosis, and an enlargement of the aorta. Levels of triglycerides and LDL and VLDL cholesterols tend to rise with ongoing use, and HDL cholesterol, the good variety, tends to be reduced.

Nicotine impacts the blood. Carbon monoxide, a breakdown of inhaled cigarette smoke, binds with haemoglobin in the blood, preventing haemoglobin from binding with oxygen for tissue perfusion. Haemoglobin has more affinity to carbon monoxide than to oxygen, leading to chronic changes of the vasculature and a stimulation to increase red blood cells. Blood, with more cells, becomes thicker and more viscous. Gas exchange in the lung is altered and tissue perfusion can decrease. Platelets are directly impacted by nicotine and the receptors on the outside of the cell, the complex weave of structures that mesh together. Platelets become more likely to aggregate. Carboxyhaemoglobinaemia, in which the blood is darker and thicker, plays a role. The wall of the arteries themselves become damaged and affected by the presence of nicotine, contributing to atherosclerosis, clot, and plaque formation.

It is highly addicting, both physiologically and psychologically.

By itself, smoking is harmful enough on the lungs, brain, and the propensity of blood to form clots. Together with other risk factors - such as travel or being sedentary - the combination can be deadly.

++

The first ring barely completes before John answers. "Yes?" John has already realised that something is awry and doesn't mess around with unnecessary pleasantries or platitudes.

"John, it's Mycroft." There had been a short pause. "Something's happened."

His eyes had flickered to Rosie, his mind already whirling. The phone call, the tone of voice, the fact that he hadn't heard anything, and the foreshadowing - Mycroft doesn't call, he never calls - that was pulsating in his chest, throbbing and thrumming in his ears. "What is it?"

"Can you make your way to UCL? Sherlock's collapsed. Been taken to the A&E there."

"Is he...?" John's brain whirled. "I need to find... let me call someone, Rosie's here."

She heard her name, stopped what she was doing for a moment, determined her papa to be unexciting, picked up the book she'd been shaking.

"I can help you try to make arrangements, if you need. Perhaps Ms. Hooper?"

"I'll take care of it. Do you have any more information? Sherlock made it back to London and, what? Just passed out?"

"I don't have anything beyond that right now. But I do trust, once you have an update, that you'll let me know?"

"He was working a case for you. Did he, I mean, was he injured, or exposed to something?" John considered that perhaps Sherlock was just _exhausted_ and hadn't eaten, but it seemed, deep down, that he knew it was more serious.

"I have given you all I have. I am regrettably detained for a span of time, but will wait for your update, or perhaps I will meet you over at the hospital."

"Fine. Whatever."

He disconnected the line, forced a goofy smile at Rosie, who grinned back and flashed all her teeth at him, and pressed another button on his mobile.

"Molly?" he had been relieved when she'd answered. "Look, I need a favour."

++

It is the nurse, Rob who comes back out to the waiting room and John bristles almost immediately - unreasonably - wondering who was watching out for Sherlock.

"Hi, I'm Rob, Sherlock's nurse tonight." He reaches out a hand toward the other person in the waiting room who is clearly with John.

"Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother." Inside John's head, he hears some sort of snark from Sherlock, an adjective like older, wanker, annoying, or something weight-related. It makes him feel warm, the connection. And then ... feeling the distance, hollow and a little empty.

There is one single nod from Rob. "I'm glad you're here. And you've been updated?" At Mycroft's nod in return, he speaks to them both. "He's okay. Tube's in, sedation's running. Dr. Nguyen ordered a propofol infusion, a nice short acting med, short half-life. An amnesiac, actually used in short term anaesthesia, and we'll give small doses of pain meds when he needs. Xray's been done, sats are marginally better. He's not struggling."

"Can I, can we --" John rises to his feet, anxious to see him. Sitting in the waiting room, imagining the worst, he realises, is god-awful and he doesn't think he can stand it for another minute. He is quite familiar with the procedures, the discomfort, the sedation, the restraints that are being used, and hopes Sherlock isn't too agitated, too angry, too distressed. _I need to see him._ He bobbles on his feet for a moment, unsteady, clumsy in his haste.

"Hang on." Rob clasps John's elbow to steady him, settle him perhaps, while he perches on the arm of a chair. "He's okay for the moment. Anaesthesia's placing an a-line now. Arterial line. So we need to give them a minute anyway." Rob refers to the small monitoring catheter that is placed in an artery for continuous blood pressure monitoring. It will also be used, John knows, for arterial blood gases and other lab specimens while Sherlock is on the ventilator. "And the vascular surgeon is here. He's in the room and he'll definitely be going back downstairs for that arteriogram that Dr. Nguyen mentioned, soon as the team gets here."

"And then what?" John asks, almost stupidly, but his mind continues to spin.

"Depends on what they find. And the vascular surgeon will be out to talk to you, or if the a-gram is soon, he'll see you in the department. But a plan is going to have to wait until they see where the blockage is. And how extensive it is." Rob goes on to explain that sometimes the clot can be retrieved, or they can place a stent if the artery is narrow, and sometimes a combination of both, again, determined by the findings of the imaging studies.

"He's more comfortable though?"

"He is." Rob looks between them. "We tell people every day, to take one day at a time. Sometimes, one hour at a time. Not to borrow trouble. So for the moment, we're treating what we can, supporting the rest, and planning to get the rest of the information to make treatment decisions. But he looks more stable now, while we wait." John is pleased that he speaks slowly, as if this conversation, this moment they have in the waiting room, matters. Time is a luxury, John knows, specifically time with Sherlock, and he will never take that lightly again. Rob glances at his watch, at the door, but before standing up, he considers them both again. "What questions do you have for me?"

Both of them turn toward Mycroft, who makes a deferring gesture. So John asks, "So can we come in?"

"They should be about done, and then yes of course." He gives John a hard look. "I do recommend though that you carve out time to go home, get a shower. Eat. Catch a nap. And didn't you say you have a little girl? I know it's a cliche, but it's true that this is a marathon not a sprint. And you are exhausted." Mycroft is still quiet when Rob glances over at him. "Please make sure that he follows at least a few of those directions?"

"I will see to it. Thank you for the update. And," Mycroft clears his throat, "please make sure that Dr. Watson is listed as first contact for Sherlock. He will, undoubtedly, keep me informed. But he is to be your point person."

"I'll get it switched." Rob stands. "See you inside in a few minutes."

++

Two snapshots, two similarities. Two images that would have been exquisitely painful for John if he were to concentrate on them. One he remembers. One, he only imagines.

Both involve Sherlock sprawled on the pavement. In the one, his own voice breaking, _Let me come through, please, he's my friend._ Checking a pulse, finding none.

In the other, there has been a witnessed collapse, a 999 call from a bystander, a profound and abrupt alteration in mental status, a cardiovascular catastrophe. There is a time morph and Sherlock is sprawled in an ICU bed. As if the pulmonary embolism isn't bad enough not to mention dangerous enough, now there is more clot, limb ischaemia.

And Sherlock's hand still has no pulse.

One more miracle. Please?

++

Mycroft, John discovers, is very uncomfortable. Squeamish. Whether it is hospitals in general or Sherlock in hospitals, he doesn't know. Either way, he only stays a few minutes, promises to stay in touch, threatens to remove John forcibly if he doesn't leave the building later today. He reminds him that John should not test him in this, that Mycroft will assure it happens willingly or not. They share small smiles at that memory, and then Mycroft presses a business card into his hand. "There is guaranteed twenty-four, seven reach-ability if you need transport, errands, or access to me if for some reason you fail to get through on my mobile. I do expect to be accessible, but, well, hang on to that."

"Seriously, arrange for a ride with this?"

"Yes. And there can be a car seat for Rosie, as we had already discussed." Mycroft, while they had been in the waiting room, had asked John for permission to arrange for a short term, temporary au pair that would care for things, keeping Rosie at her own home on Baker Street and be available to free up John to be in the hospital if needed. They hadn't reached a decision earlier, so Mycroft reminds him, "Just say the word, and I can ..."

John wonders only briefly why he hasn't already said yes. "Do it. Yes, that'd be a relief." One less thing John will have to worry about.

"Fine." He smiles then, more of a sincere one than John has seen, and it's rattling. Disarming. "Later today, we will be in touch. I would assume that you would like to meet and settle the au pair personally?"

"Yes. Of course, Rosie and I."

"I'll ring you with a time, then." He considers John's rumpled state of being. "Keep your mobile charged. And do speak up if you, or Sherlock, come to need something."

"He needs the clot to dissolve." John states the obvious, and with a sober addendum breathes, _"Clots."_

"Much as I would like to have an impact on that, sadly, I must admit that my powers are slightly limited when it comes to intracellular, or," he angles his head as he searches for the right words, "_intravascular ... coercion._" Another small smile is exchanged, and John realises he is glad Mycroft has come, even for this short time. On his way out the door, Mycroft tilts his head, his eyes serious and concerned, and then there is a faint smile, a quirk of the eyebrow that somehow communicate - _follow directions, eventually, get some rest, don't make me take drastic measures_; John thinks of the car park all those years ago, the phone and camera surveillance, and he tries to mean it as he nods in return.

Rob appears again, explains that it is change of shift, that he will be giving report and will come back in to introduce the new nurse. John turns to really see Sherlock, laying still, chest rising, falling, under support of the ventilator. And he doesn't fault Mycroft overmuch for wanting to get away. John doesn't particularly care to see Sherlock like this either, truth be told. The tubes, lines, wires, and monitors don't especially bother him, but the knowledge that none of it is remotely comfortable and that underneath it all is someone he cares about very deeply is ... disturbing. And it is unsettling that Sherlock is still, quiet, receptive, compliant even, and not fighting the therapies that have been instituted.

His eyes rest closed, his face mostly relaxed unless someone is rendering care or doing something. His lower cheeks, his jaws, are mostly obscured by an endotracheal tube holder that adheres over his upper lip and is velcroed in place, secured around the back of his head. His mouth is unable to close, and his lips are dry except for the occasional bit of saliva that pools at the corner of his mouth opposite the breathing tube until one of the staff members suctions it gently. There is a piece of flesh-coloured fabric adhesive wrapped around the base of his earlobe with a glowing red light underneath, measuring pulse oximetry levels. Ear lobe, John figures, because one of his hands has no pulse, no arterial signal at all, and the other can be kept free for ... everything else. The reading, his oxygen level, is barely ninety, which is better than it had been, but should be greatly higher than that. 

John's eyes flick to the ventilator, checking out the machines settings. His fraction of inspired oxygen is as high as it goes - one hundred percent. He takes note of the rest of the settings with cursory interest, tidal volume, minute volume, I/E ratio, but he sees that the PEEP setting is high and that his peak inspiratory pressures are a bit elevated - consistent with his diagnosis. He cares more about the person than the machinery, and his mind doesn't seem to want to focus too long on the technology, and turns back to his flatmate.

The monitoring leads are unchanged but still snake out from the neckline of the ugly-print patient gown, which snaps over the arms. Untied, it hangs low around his shoulders. The cooler arm is still wrapped in a blanket and the white straps of wrist restraints are tight enough to keep Sherlock from lunging for his breathing tube if he were to be that awake. There is a new apparatus on his warmer arm, from knuckles to up over his wrist. Wide tape secures the back of his hand and the middle of his forearm to a padded, seafoam green stabiliser board. Pressure tubing connects from the plastic catheter in Sherlock's radial artery to a manifold, pressure bag, and the entire tubing is transduced to the bedside monitor. The red wave form - systole, dicrotic notch, diastole - blips on the monitor in real time. It is secure, and for the moment, the numbers are within normal range.

Sherlock's right leg is still restrained to the bottom footboard to keep it absolutely still should he wake up and try to move about. While John was out of the room, an indwelling urinary catheter has been placed, for which John is at least a little bit grateful. One less thing any of them need to worry about, Sherlock in particular. The IV pumps, of which there had been three, have multiplied. One has a white bottle with white fluid infusing and is labeled propofol; another is labeled peripheral heparin, which is right next to the other heparin infusion that is now labeled sheath heparin. The alteplase and IV fluids are still there. It sounds like an awful lot of anticoagulation medications to John, but he knows they are either infusing in different places at different dosages or are now even more needed because they act on different aspects of the clotting cascade. They infuse to dissolve clot as well as to prevent more from forming, to keep the existing clot from getting any larger.

He slides a chair close to the bed, to wait, pulls out his mobile.

Molly has already sent a text, **I am not working today. Rosie is still asleep. Should I make plans to take tomorrow off too? How are things? Molly**

He hesitates then realises that it is better to have planned for this. **That would be great. Working on an alternative, but just in case? Thanks. And I'll have to update you later, when there's a plan.**

Rob comes back to the door with another nurse. "This is Dawn, she'll be his nurse today, and they are ready for him downstairs." A respiratory therapist is right behind them with a portable ventilator. "So," Rob begins to consolidate what equipment can be safely condensed, putting IV pumps on bed poles and unplugging what is not needed for the moment. "Dr. Nguyen's partner, the intensivist today will be Dr. Benson. And the vascular surgeon is already down in IR, talking with the interventionalist, said he'd review everything with you in the department, after the a-gram, when they have all the data."

Dawn reaches out a hand, "Nice to meet you." As John shakes it, she chuckles, "I don't know why I even bother with that, don't be offended, I'm just going to wash my hands immediately, but ..." And she uses the waterless hand sanitiser. John commiserates, knowing that it is truly a ridiculous thing that any healthcare provider shakes hands with anyone else. "You want to walk down with us?"

"Please."

It is a well-orchestrated travel by bed, with the vent, the monitor, the pressure line, all the IV infusions, and the rest of the equipment. They have tucked more things on Sherlock's bed again - an ambu bag, an extra oxygen tank, emergency meds, and Dawn pats her scrub top pocket. "And I have pain meds in case he needs them. I strongly believe in traveling prepared." She indicates the bed, the staff, the almost sense that they are a portable ICU in some respects.

It is different than the trip earlier. Sherlock has a more stable airway which is good, but much more equipment and more people involved, more caution in doorways and manoeuvring hallways, overseeing the entire medical cluster, in and out of the lift. Once they arrive in the department, because it is regular departmental hours, there are more people to help. The staff don their appropriate gear and accompany Sherlock into the procedure room, leaving John standing in the holding area by himself, somewhat adrift. The emptiness John feels as the doors close, separating them yet again, is powerful and gnawing.

He wants to remind them to be careful, to pay attention, to watch out for signs of discomfort so that Sherlock isn't laying there somewhat sedated and still having acute pain. He wants to remind them about a lot of things, actually. One of the secretaries finally notices him and offers to show him to the waiting room, which is in the adjacent room he'd been in, good grief, he thinks, was that just last night? When John hesitates, her smile is kind. "They'll take good care of him. And I'll let you know how it's going. This is Holmes, yes, from ICU?" She barely waits for John to nod before continuing, "Oh, yeah, the surgeon is here waiting on the films. I'm pretty sure he wanted to talk to you. Have a seat there and I'll make sure someone comes out."

She is so high energy that John is almost exhausted trying to keep up with her and doesn't even try to respond, simply nods and quietly relocates to the other room. He finds a chair, tips his head back so that it is held up by the wall behind him, takes a deep breath, tries not to think. And he waits.

"Dr. Watson?"

The words penetrate the haze he's been floating in, not exactly asleep. He snuffles, sit up, blinks a few times. "Yes, and it's John," he amends.

"I'm Dr. Steinberg. Dean. Vascular surgery. You know, it's funny, I thought I recognised your name. I think we might've been in med school together. You were a few years ahead, I scrubbed under you when you were chief surgical resident at Barts?"

"Yes." John checks out his name badge again, waiting for his cobwebs to dissipate. Dean. "Right. I do remember your name, absolutely. Nice to meet you. Again." He smiles but immediately sobers. "How's it going in there?"

"They're still imaging, but I wanted to touch base with you while we wait." He glances around. "Actually, did you want to come to the control room, watch?"

Oh god yes, John's mind responds, almost instantly and desperately. His mouth, thankfully, a little slower to engage. "That'd be fantastic, yes."

John follows, stops to don a head covering that he takes from the rack Dr. Steinberg - Dean - stops at. He is a few paces behind as they enter the procedure room but turn immediately to the side hall, into the glass observation area. There are a few technicians, several others in scrubs, the intensivist, and of course some people actually working in the small room.

Dr. Steinberg smiles with a bit of an apology. "Unusual condition. Has garnered a bit of attention, Mr. Holmes has." He gazes into the room at the bank of monitors. "They are looking at the arm first. First pass looks like an arterial thrombus in the distal portion of the brachial artery, just before the interosseous bifurcates off." To the tech, on the side screen, he says, "Replay that injection of dye, would you?" He identifies some landmarks although it was unnecessary for John, he still appreciates and listens closely as the man begins to give a play by play. "So here's our catheter, feeding down here, just about mid-humerus now, a little further and ... BAM, some resistance. So here comes the dye injection, watch for it, see it? Right there, it gets real narrow and then just stumps off just below ... well, close to the antecubital area. Flow just ends. Thrombus, absolutely. Play it again?" He points downward again, "Watch here, there is some collateral circulation, which is protective, shouldn't be any damage. Just need to restore blood flow." He is speaking quietly to John primarily, but the room at large is also paying attention to his explanation.

There is movement at the doorway, and a tech gestures at them and summons Dr. Steinberg. "He wants to show you the stent, talk to you a bit before deploying it."

The vascular surgeon turns to John as if to explain but John shoos him away immediately. He certainly doesn't need coddling when duty calls. 

John nods, feeling the isolation again as his contact, his 'back-stage' escort dons a surgical mask then proceeds into the procedure room. John takes a step back, silent, grateful to be this close rather than in the waiting room, worrying and wondering. He can see almost nothing of Sherlock except that there is most assuredly a patient on the procedure table and that people are clustered around him, working in there. He knows that Sherlock's head is at the end closest to the ventilator, and that there is equipment and a plethora of monitors and John hopes he is blissfully unaware. He hopes a lot of things on Sherlock's behalf.

John envies him a little for his sedation, his artificial sleep -_ just wake me when this is over and fixed,_ he thinks.

Bits and snippets of some of the discussions trickles into the room or via the intercom between the team and the tech who is recording, monitoring, and assisting from the control room with replays and camera viewpoints. "... pressure's up again, let's do a squirt of nitro ... fluoro on ... he's wriggling, let's give twenty-five mics of fentanyl, and go up on the propofol ... hold that ... can you reshoot that last run-off? ..." There is discussion between Dr. Steinberg and the interventional radiologist about the actual stent specifics. They are being quite careful, John observes, to choose the right diameter, the right length, and the right location.

He stands there mostly forgotten as more measurements are taken, more images, and then best he can tell they have pulled out a piece of the clot and are ready to do a balloon angioplasty to get ready for stent deployment in Sherlock's brachial artery. The attention of everyone in the room and those gathered in the control room is riveted on the monitors, fluoro is resumed, and someone starts counting as the balloon is inflated to a certain pressure for the time ordered by the interventionalist.

More activity, some movement, another injection of contrast, and there is a lot of focus on the large screens inside the room and in the control room as dye makes its way, illuminating blood flow. And then something particularly unexpected from inside the procedure area: there is some spontaneous, quiet cheering, the celebratory collection of voices, of affirmation, from almost everyone inside the room as they watch the monitor and the patient.

At the activity, the reaction, John can keep silent no longer. "Is that ... did they ...?"

"Balloon's down, stent's in, there's doppler signals, listen!" The tech presses a button, turns a dial to amplify the volume from the speaker, and the sounds from inside the room are magnified, audible, and resonate loud in the control room - _swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. _The rhythmic cadence is indeed of musical quality, poignant, and emotion-evoking. More importantly, it represents blood flow, tissue perfusion, success. 

John’s exhale is shaky, and he feels his knees nearly buckle with relief. A moment later the vascular surgeon is back in the control room, elated. He pulls off his mask to reveal a grin and begins to relate some of the technicalities of the study, the procedure, but only gets about two sentences in before he looks - _really looks_ \- at John.

"Come with me."

He removes his surgical cap, pulls John's from his head while he's at it, bins them both. He leads him back the way they came not stopping until they are in a small consultation room. Dean pulls back a chair, gestures for John to do the same. "Are you all right?"

John is still mostly shocked, overcome, exhausted, and he tries to answer but can't, so he makes himself nod yes. Both of them are quiet for a few minutes, sitting across the table from each other. Dean finally smirks a little and leans forward. "Get out your mobile." John complies, a mite puzzled. "Open your contacts, and find someone to call, ask for a favour. Pick someone who can come sit with you for a little while, and ... help you here. Alone, here, with what you know, is a bad idea." When John doesn't move, he points to the mobile again and gets sterner. "Pick someone you trust and that will give you a ride home when it's time." He raises an eyebrow. "Doctors, we all play worst case scenario." John stares, blinks, and doesn't disagree. "And we all act like we have it all together. When we _don't._"

"I'm okay, really. Just ... long night." Dean chuckles as his deflection, points to John's mobile again until he opens his contacts, and watches while John scrolls through recent calls. 

Sherlock, no. Obviously. This, in Sherlock’s diction, his _you’re an idiot_ voice.

Mycroft, no, he was just here.

Molly, busy and not an option. John - and Rosie - obviously need her to stay where she is.

A couple of calls ordering takeaway.

One to the main number at the surgery.

Greg -- and over his name, John hesitates. Dean is watching, reading upside down, and he speaks immediately. "Call him." John hesitates again and Dean reaches out to snatch the mobile from him and before John can even protest, he touches the call button and raises the device to his ear.

"I'm looking for Greg." A response. "I'm Dean Steinberg, here at UCL hospital, I'm here with John Watson. Hey, calling to ask a favour." He watches John steadily while there is something of a response from the other end of the line. "He's okay. Yes, that's ... he's here with ... yes, Holmes." More muffled sounds. "Can you come over? He's exhausted and I really think he shouldn't be alone. Maybe just look after him for a while." He smirks just a bit and leans back away from John as John begins to lean forward, reaching to take away the phone, ready to protest. "Great. No problem, and ... Of course, I'll tell him... Exactly, we went to med school together. See you then. Interventional Radiology waiting room. First floor. Thanks." After disconnecting the call, he hands John the mobile back and says, "Ten minutes. He said he's not far."

"I'm sorry, I'm embarrassed." John hears the tremor in his own voice. "I'm sure I'll be --"

"Oh stop it. You don't need to be a big tough army surgeon right now, do you?" Another moment and John is ready to protest again. "Actually, I don't want to hear your argument. They're going to be a little while then I think they're going to restudy the PE too while they're all there and assembled. There's been discussion of perhaps using some mechanical ultrasound, bit of direct flushes into the clot, see if we can disrupt the fibrin, and _bust up_ the clot."

He sounds a bit too casual for John, who considers that they are working within a very small window for accuracy, and even a little too aggressive - _bust up_, really? - too many fragments moving forward could be ...

Dr. Steinberg interrupts his musings when he grabs the attention of someone walking by, "Hey!" A staff members is in the hallway, and Dean stops them, asks for a bottle of water and if they have any food in the department yet. A few minutes later, there is a small pastry, banana, and water bottle next to John.

John considers that he is still sitting with him, that Sherlock is still in the procedure room, that he's okay. And that Greg Lestrade is coming. "Don't you have something to do? Somewhere to be? I'm fine."

"I'm afraid to leave you unattended, think you'll run off, or cancel your friend Greg."

He's not actually wrong, John realises, and chooses another random thought. "They'd talked about an IVC filter, did they decide?" It would sit in the inferior vena cava and, umbrella-like, provide a mesh type of filter. It would protect against further clot that might break free - presumably, that's what had started this whole mess - from Sherlock's legs.

"They can't until the pulmonary artery infusion is done. You know, mechanically, the alteplase infusion, that catheter, would be in the way. But yes, he should have one. My opinion." Dean sits back a little. "So he gathered quite a crowd in there."

"It's so odd," John begins, having another sip of water and breaking off a piece of the fruit in front of him, "these clots, DVT to PE is common, I get it." John glances over as Dr. Benson arrives. "But the arm ..."

"Just in time," Dean says. "John was just trying to connect some of the details, figure it all out."

"Or you could just tell me what you're thinking."

"Really unusual," Dr. Benson begins. "This combination of problems."

John can feel the fatigue running through him, takes another bite and a drink, as Dr. Benson sits down. "I know." John cuts to the chase. "Have you seen this particular combination of problems?"

"Seen it separately, of course, saddle PE this size, sure, absolutely. And the occasional arterial thrombosis of an arm, yes. But never in combination." Dr. Benson is serious, "Read about it. It's certainly in the literature."

"I have, once." Dean offers. "Saw it in one patient with this presentation."

John gazes over, looks between the two docs, waiting.

Dean leans forward. "It's very rare to have clot in the arterial and venous systems at the same time. The PE, even though it's technically in an artery, and I know you know this, is a venous problem, with venous origins. Pre-pulmonary. Unoxygenated. The arm, brachial artery thrombus, obviously an arterial problem."

Dr. Benson concurs. "Arterial and venous clots together, yes, highly unusual."

"Spontaneous?" John asks, then answers his own question, "It seems that they have to be related."

"Hard to diagnose the cause."

John can't help asking, the dread bubbling, heartburn and unease ruminating in his chest. "What happened to your other patient?" Although John is interested in determining the cause, he finds that this is the question that comes out of his mouth first.

"The outcome was not good."

Doctor-speak for he didn’t make it. Died. The words strike fear in his very core, and John blinks hard as he forbids himself to get upset. _Focus, Watson._ "Did you ever, did they ever find out what caused it?"

"No. Well, not until _after._ " Post-mortem, then. "But there's really only one reason in Sherlock's case that I can think of," and he gestures at the other physician, waits for an interruption, and there isn't one so he continues, "other than an AVM which I think we would have already known about, he would have had other physical issues or haemorrhage by this point. Arteries and veins come together throughout the whole body, but in the capillary vasculature, not big vessels like this has to be. So other than the lungs, unless he's got something even more unusual, there is only one other thing that I know of that can allow for arterial and venous blood to communicate in both directions, and that's a --"

John breathes out the three-lettered abbreviation in stereo with Dr. Steinberg. The men all blink a few times, putting it all together and making the connection, all of them thinking their own thoughts for a moment, until there is more noise at the door. Standing there looking in is a tall man, suit coat open, styled gray hair over a tanned face. His eyes scope out the room and settle on John Watson.

"John, thank goodness. They said you were ..." Greg begins and then sees the looks, the heavy atmosphere in the room, the expression on all three faces. He moves immediately to John's side, looking for information, searching the eyes for any sort of clue. A hand slides down to John's shoulder, squeezes once, and he realises that the news is bad but that Sherlock must be close by, that it is serious and that he's in a bad way. But that he's still here, that there's a chance, that there's hope to be had. John's hand reaches up to where Greg's hand rests on his shoulder, makes contact, takes a deep breath. Greg's voice is soft but sure. "I got here soon as I could. What is it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving medications via an endotracheal tube is even recommended in patients without IV or IO access, that's how powerful the lungs (functioning normally) are at quick, effective delivery into the body.
> 
> ++
> 
> It would have been great to have been able to perform a brachial artery thrombectomy and have that be enough to fix the problem in the arm, but there was narrowing of that artery and the vascular surgeon apparently had some misgivings about rethrombosis in this acute phase and opted for thrombectomy plus balloon angioplasty followed by a stent. [Suck out the clot, dilate and open the vessel, and place a stent or scaffold there to hold it open]. There are many many many different ways to treat arterial occlusion, PE, DVT (and everything else in medicine) and is up to skill, preference, proficiency, and availability of provider, facility, and equipment.
> 
> There are a lot of things that could be expounded on medically. An AVM is an arterio-venous malformation and most common sites for those are brain, spinal cord, or abdomen. Sherlock does not have an AVM. The realisation and explanation of what the condition Sherlock has will be in the next chapter. JBaillier, I know you already know. And the rest of us can take a deep breath, knowing that finding the problem is the first step in fixing it! So despite the sort of cliff-hanger, this is actually a good thing.
> 
> ++
> 
> First iteration: I got to the end of the chapter and was so sad. I totally wished John had not been alone at the close of the case, that someone had been there for him, and then I went ... duh, I can fix that and went back to write in making contact with and the appearance of Greg. I needed it, and so does John.
> 
> ++
> 
> Please let me know if there are still areas that are unclear. It's hard to find a balance in explaining things as we go or in just leaving details. I think I might have to get in a short, more fluffy chapter, set just a little bit in the future and keeping true to the premise without being a spoiler. I can only handle writing medical hardship for a little bit before caving and needing to offer some hope and more than a little bit of comfort.


	7. I'll Be Close By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a future time slide in the beginning, but don't worry, hardly a spoiler, and then the story picks right back up in the thickest part of the storm. I just needed that little touch of comfort.

"Are you sure?"

"Get out."

"I could ..."

"John, _please."_

Sherlock has already fussed about being watched, scrutinised and inspected every second of every day of every waking and sleeping moment since ... usually he finishes the phrase with _the beginning of time_. It is always with a snarl, and John doesn't especially blame him. They've only been home for a handful of days and John knows - and can't stop - that he hovers. He watches chest rise, chest fall, movement, for focal neuro deficits. He notices body functions, offers more water or juice when he thinks Sherlock is becoming dehydrated. He watches _everything._

He certainly can't say since coming home from the hospital, because it started long before that. Since before the breathing tube, the ventilator, the ICU days. John takes a deep breath, cautioning himself that it’s fine, that things are better, and yet ... "Okay," he finally says with reluctance. "I'll leave you to it."

Sherlock stands in the bathroom, a hand on the sink to help support his weight. There is a stubborn set to his jaw. His gaunt, sunken jaw, John thinks.

"You promise you'll ..."

_"Yes. Out."_ The snarl is definitely back with a vengeance. John expects the fangs to come out next. And possibly werewolf fur if such a thing were possible.

"Five minutes."

John returns in four, and Sherlock has already levered himself out of the shower and is clumsily wrapped in a couple of towels, having apparently run out of steam, and he looks positively out of gas and lacking any further motivation. With serious eyes watching intently, John finds himself feeling grateful that Sherlock didn't fall over.

John is done asking, waiting, or trying to offer choices, so he doesn't leave any further decisions to Sherlock. A few minutes later he has managed to get Sherlock into the waiting pyjama bottoms, hair partially toweled dry, and sitting somewhat limply in the edge of the bed in his bedroom. Wordless, he holds out a soft tee shirt and even though Sherlock is _stick a fork in me_ done, he frowns, rubs a finger over some dark spots on a few places in his chest. "Can you ...?"

"I'll take care of that tomorrow, before you fall over, here."

"No. Tonight. I tried scrubbing, but ..." His index finger trails over spots over both clavicles, both ribs, the center of his chest. John sees that indeed, there are some reddened patches of irritated skin where monitoring electrodes had been, leaving behind a sticky, tenacious residue. The sensitive skin is mildly abraded where he tried to scrub. It can't feel good, probably catches and perhaps itches. Either way, not good, John is sure. And unlike some of the other stuff that John can't make magically go away, this one is easily fixable.

"Okay. I have ..." he begins, then rather than draw this out any longer, he finds his first aid stash and medical supplies, digs out the adhesive remover pads that he'd brought home in a pocket a while back. He pushes at Sherlock until he's flat on his back save for the pillows behind his head, then sets to work. The solvent is not immediate nor easy, and it takes a few minutes. Sherlock closes his eyes, relieved, as John frees up his skin, removing the tenacious marks of tape residue from his pale and now blotchy skin

"Wow, we've just about got it. Your skin is sensitive, and very very prone to a good bond. Not everyone’s skin sticks like this. Lucky for them I guess." John works slowly, carefully, being attentive to not exposing Sherlock's skin to more chemicals than necessary. When almost all of the residue is gone, he daubs a few more times to remove the last traces, and then secures mild soap and water to finish cleansing and then rinsing. "Had I known, we would have done that before your shower."

Although Sherlock doesn't answer verbally, he does seem to sigh with gratitude.

"Budge up," he says softly, using a gentle towel to completely dry Sherlock's chest. "Tee shirt. And then you can sleep."

His eyes open, not quite fully, but he looks at John and sees compassion, efficiency, and attentiveness. He then lets exhaustion take him, allowing his eyes to drift closed as he leans forward. The tee shirt slides down, they bumble through getting Sherlock's arms through the sleeves. "Thanks." The word is genuine, quiet, and trusting.

John can't stop the impulse, the impetus, any more than he can stop himself from breathing. Or any more than he could have willed away the physical condition, the treatments, the recovery, the prolonged hospitalisation. Brushing his fringe back into the usual style, the direction and lift how Sherlock prefers it, he kisses his forehead. It is unrushed, a promise. There is no apology, no hesitation.

"Mmmmm," Sherlock moans the response, quietly, deep in his throat, turns his head toward John, leaning in. It is reflexive, as he seeks _more_, connection, togetherness. _Again,_ he seems to say, and John obliges.

"Sleep. I'll be close by."

Indeed, certain skin types are more apt to good contact, better results with certain types of tape - paper, silk, silicone, fabric, and even plasters. Keratin, collagen, hydration status, age, various conditions such as diabetes or renal insufficiency, and nutrition can affect how well adhesive adheres - or doesn't adhere - to skin. The other name for that attraction, that property of adherence, is affinity.

++ 

"Just because we suspect it doesn't mean it's necessarily there." Dr. Benson eyes John.

"It doesn't mean it's not either." Dean, the vascular surgeon, speaks quietly. "It might not, you're right. But if I were a wagering man ..."

Dr. Benson is a little skeptical. "I've never seen it. I'm not sure. I mean, I hear you, it makes sense. But ... well, we have to confirm it anyway." He presents his case, that it could just have been spasm, inflammation, other odd reasons and just a very unusual, rare coincidence that the arterial and venous clots both happened in close succession. "And it could have been afib. That could definitely explain it."

"It might."

John tries to be patient, loses the battle. "I know I'm not sitting there watching the monitor, but someone is. I haven't seen afib, not once, since he's been here. No one's mentioned it." Dean gestures at him, a kind of 'he has a point' and Dr. Benson smiles and shrugs, his hands coming up as if protecting himself good-naturedly.

"Regardless, to rule it out, he'll need a TEE, transesophageal echo," Dr. Benson says. "I'll need to bring in a cardiologist anyway. They'll usually manage the anticoagulation meds afterward, once we get there. So we'll see how soon they can come up."

Dean's mobile chirps off again, and he apologetically connects, then waves at the rest of them - John, Greg, and the intensivist - gesturing to John with a pointed finger and making it quite obvious that he is to rest, and stay in touch, and then he disappears.

"I'll catch up with you in the ICU a little later, then. Okay?" Dr. Benson makes sure John nods, that he is okay before leaving.

"I understood none of that, you know." Greg is still standing awkwardly as John takes another bite of something in front of him, bins the trash, recaps the water bottle.

"Just like I don't understand the entire, technical difference between extortion and bribery and coercion," John says, then smiles. Or tries to, but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't have much energy in it. "I'm glad you're here, mate. Thanks for ..."

"Have to say, you look ... kind of terrible."

"You should see the other guy," John quips the cliche without thinking, and then realises that the other guy is actually only a few rooms away - Sherlock - does indeed look a hundred times worse. He sobers, apologises. "I know. Once he gets settled upstairs again, I'm going to have to ... run home for a kip or something."

"So, what's a PFO?"

"Patent foramen ovale. Remnants of foetal circulation, direct opening between the right and left upper chambers of the heart. It's an atrial-septal defect. It's common, and actually stays open in, somewhere around maybe twenty-five percent of the population but it's never a problem for almost everyone. It usually closes up in the ... oh I don't know, first couple weeks of life in the newborn." John blinks, sees Greg looking ... perplexed. "That was more than you wanted, wasn't it."

"So it's like a heart murmur?"

"No, not really. Not usually, but a hole, an opening. So it allows for blood to squeeze between heart chambers, bypassing the lungs. Sometimes, little clots can form and go ... elsewhere. Wreaks havoc." Usually it's a stroke, John thinks, keeps that to himself.

Through the door, the secretary from earlier pokes her head in. "They're finishing up soon, back to ICU then. Radiologist is already scrubbing in on the next case, but sounds like another twelve hours, give or take, on that infusion, and they're going to want him back down here, re-study."

John nods. Not necessarily a positive sign, the clot is still there and still in need of the direct medication.

He feels his own pulse loud in his ears, thinking about what the day still holds, for both of them, but Sherlock especially. Breathing tube, sedation, laying flat, medications, restraints, monitoring, possibly now an additional procedure.

It's going to be a very long day. For both of them.

++

"Squad called in." One of the nurses had taken the call, and spoke to the A&E physician, Dr. Franco, as they finished up from the continuous cycle of treat and street with the occasional arrest, admit, or pronounce thrown in for good measure. "Thirty something male. Collapsed near Euston Square station."

"Tubed?"

"Not yet. Medics said bystander observed him coughing and knees buckled."

"They have anything else helpfully diagnostic?" The nurse shrugged. "ETA?"

"Couple of minutes." There was commotion at the ambulance door, and a crew with a distinct sense of urgency arrived with a young man, dark hair, whose face was hidden by a non-rebreather mask. "Or sooner."

The team leader at the foot of the ambulance gurney spoke. "Can't get a pressure any more. And we lost his IV line on the way in."

"Trauma bay then," the nurse directed. She spoke then to one of the techs, "Let's go."

There were quite a few pairs of hands, lowering, turning, pulling, as they took their new patient from ambulance stretcher to A&E bed.

"I can't breathe, let me sit up," he muttered, pushing at the hands trying to help him, but ineffectively. Moments later, a respiratory therapist had connected a pulse oximeter which flashed and alarmed, 82, 83, 84, until they did finally sit the young man into a high fowlers position with some relief.

"Still can't get much of a blood pressure," one of the nurses said. "Name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The answer is tremulous and somewhat dazed.

"Allergies?"

"No."

"When did all this start?"

"Cough, three days. Pain too." He squirmed, reaching for the mask, his breathing laboured and uncomfortable.

The monitor alarmed all over the place, heart rate high, blood pressure in the sixties, oxygen level finally approaching 90. "Hold still, need to get another IV in." A little later, "Great, we're in, grabbing some lab work. Recent travel?"

"Yes. North Yorkshire."

"Take any medications regularly?" He shook his head negatively. "Illegal substances, marijuana, cocaine, anything?"

"Not in the last six months."

"Where's your pain, primarily?"

"Chest, ribs. Calf - lower leg was bad the other day. And the back of my elbow."

Rather than speak, he held up his arm, where his shirt had ripped and there was a faint abrasion, some very surface scrapes, road rash. "From your fall," the nurse said. "We'll clean that, eventually. It's sore I'm sure, but minor."

"The bad pain is breathing, my chest. Worse when I breathe in."

The physician listened to Sherlock's chest carefully, did a brief assessment of his abdomen, removed his shoes, feeling his ankles. "Which leg?"

"Right."

With both hands, the doctor supported Sherlock's foot, watching Sherlock's reaction, "Let me know if this hurts," and he dorsiflexed his foot, bringing his toes up toward his body.

Sherlock's response was immediate. "God, yes. _Stop."_

"Soon as we get another line in, get your blood pressure up with some IV fluids, we'll be sending you for a CAT scan, Mr. Holmes." He explained briefly what his findings were, giving some directions to one of the nurses as well regarding medications, labs, and ordering an electrocardiogram.

"Is it serious?"

Dr. Franco looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "You collapsed on the kerb within the last hour. I think you're a little beyond serious." He pauses, trying to gauge whether the patient is comprehending. "But this is treatable. And we're going to do the best we can, as quickly as we can."

++

Dawn, Sherlock's nurse, a respiratory therapist, and another staff member guide the bed again, the halls, the lift, the turns becoming more familiar to John. He and Greg follow at a distance. Once they are in the lift, Dawn gives him a bit of an update. "So blood pressure's up a little, we see that when the body tries to do its own perfusion, you know, increases pressures in order to get the blood through. He got some pain meds, and we upped his sedation." She waits until John nods. "They already told you the stent is in, the arm, nice signals in his wrist, so that's great."

"And coming back down later today."

"Yup. They'll call of course, but expecting maybe twelve hours more, the alteplase." She takes a look at John, and he can feel himself blinking slowly. "You should get some rest yourself, before you fall over. I mean, before you end up in the bed next to him." There is a brief chuckle, and she groans at her own words. "I didn't mean, you know ... Sorry," and she looks to make sure John is amused before giving up trying to fix her innocently-meant comment, "Unless that's your end game, but ... probably not today." The hallways are crowded but people get out of the way when they see the acuity of the patient, and Dawn guides them past a cart of meal trays and a crowd of teenagers that she actually needs to ask to get to one side of the hallway. "Almost there," she says, "and I know ultrasound's been waiting, so we'll get him settled, let them do what they need, keep him comfortable. And let him rest."

"I think they were going to consult cardiology. And yesterday Kathy, Dr. Nguyen, said she was contacting a haematologist?"

"He's going to be a very popular patient today." They round into his room again, and repeat the process of reconnecting his monitor, switching from the portable/transport ventilator, sliding the IV pumps back into place, plugging everything in, turning the foot pumps back on. Dawn takes a hard look at the arterial line, the IV sites, the infusion site, dressing, and tubings that are still taped securely to Sherlock's right leg. With her fingers and then a doppler and gel, she confirms the lovely turbulent pulse over his left radial and ulnar arteries. John and Greg stand there, trying to stay out of the way, and eventually the nurses are all satisfied and leave the room, clearing a space for John to get close again.

He looks the same, more swollen perhaps, but eyes closed, a little bedraggled from the activity and the movement and being shifted onto and off of beds, stretchers, and tables.

"I'm taking you home in about ten minutes, John," Greg says quietly. "Seriously, you need a couple of hours off your feet."

Absently, John nods and can feel his heart pounding at the thought of leaving the room, leaving the building. _What if ...?_

He tucks his fingers under the blankets, checking out the formerly cool left arm. There is a very weakly palpable pulse in the radial artery, and the hand is still a little bit cool but not nearly as it had been.

Dawn returns, Dr. Benson in tow, and they confirm that they have John's contact information, that they will see him later in the day if he chooses to come back, or they are available for phone updates. "The cardiologist will be around a little later, and I'll ask them to call you," Dr. Benson says. "Go home. We're better than we were."

John glances up at the bedside monitor, blood pressure back to being low, temp mildly elevated again, probably from just the presence of clot. His oxygenation, still low on very high settings. The indecision is written all over his face, and he frowns. "I really don't think ..." Greg glances over, seems to realise John's dilemma. "I don't think now is the time to leave."

Dr. Benson nods, his smile sympathetic, but he tries again. "We're not turning him. He's not a candidate for sedation vacation." John knows he is referring to the process of lowering sedation in preparation for determining readiness to get off the ventilator. "Pain meds when he needs, it's supportive care, the medications, and not rocking the boat today." They are all looking at John, who is still unconvinced. "I'll call you myself, any change, or if I get the sense you need to come back. Power nap, and then see how you feel?"

Greg keeps wisely silent as he watches John. "I can get you back here pretty quickly. If needed."

Dawn realises that he feels ganged up on, and is the one who manages to reach him by telling him the opposite. "You can also stay, if you want. That's fine, you know." Her pause is intentional, gentle. "But consider what is the wisest choice. What's best."

John takes a deep breath and a mental step back from his situation. What would he advise someone else in the same situation? To go home, take a short break, take care of what he needed to, and then to come back. "All right."

The nurse smiles, touches his arm while glancing again at all of Sherlock's lines, wires, tubes, and overall assessment. "I'll call you, first blush of anything not quite right."

He steps to Sherlock's side and peers down at him. It is uncomfortable to really look, tubes and lines, tape on his face, and the way he is artificially sleeping. But he knows it is his time to be strong for them both, so he brushes at his fringe, speaks low. "You're okay. Just rest if you can. Things are going all right. We're all keeping a close eye on you." He can feel his heart pounding, tries to settle himself. "I'll be close by, and I'll come back --" John wants to finish the phrase with a promise that it'll be only a few minutes. "Soon. Soon as I can." The lie comes out oddly, but John knows that with the sedation and other pain medications, time passes very differently for Sherlock, and that he won't specifically realise it.

John, however, knows that he will feel every minute. And every kilometer.

++

Greg doesn't speak much on the short drive back to Baker Street, and John is grateful, tips his head back against the car seat. He has read and sent several texts before closing his eyes in the car, just to rest them.

**Dr. Watson, Have lined up a highly esteemed, well-referenced au pair, Lydia. She will be arriving Baker Street today by three. MH**

John responds with a simple **okay** and does the math. He can meet her, settle her with Rosie, and be back to the hospital shortly after that. He hopes.

**Hey Molly, heading to Baker Street. Need a few hrs sleep. Mycroft has lined up an au pair. Can you bring Rosie 'round after lunch?**

**Of course. If you're still sleeping, I'll let myself in, put Rosie down for a nap. I can stay as long as you need. Molly**

He nearly stumbles up the stairs, but Greg was ready for that and steadies him. The flat is hollow, empty, and ... morose, John thinks, as he plugs in his mobile to charge and crashes on the sofa. He hasn't the energy, inclination, or strength to go any further.

He does, even with his eyes closed, remember his manners, and says to Greg, "Thanks for the ride."

"You need me to stay?"

"Please don't." John's words are unclear, but he knows Greg understands, and tries to will his body to relax.

"I'll talk to you --" Greg changes his mind about completing the sentence, changes to, "Call me if you need. Anything at all." He stands noiselessly, looking down at one of his dearest friends, wants to help, knows there's very little he can actually do. But he wants to comfort him, so he spreads the blanket over John, pats at his calf, and lets himself out.

++

There is a quiet, peaceful lull in John's stream of consciousness as he awakens some time later, a few blissful seconds that are absolutely wonderful. The scene, Baker Street. The couch sounds and feels like home, where there is only relaxed well-being and hazy calm before reality descends on him full force. He remembers. He feels his own sharp intake of breath, the immediate realisation that things are bad and he needs to get back to the hospital, and presses up on an elbow.

To find himself looking into the kind, tentative eyes of Molly Hooper, who is seated across from him, trying to make herself small. She is church-mouse quiet.

"Oh god, sorry to have startled you."

"You didn't," John croaks. "Startled myself awake."

"Rosie's asleep upstairs," she updates him. "Exhausted, mostly carried her right past you." On the little end table sits the baby monitor, the gray video showing Rosie in her cot, her blanket. Rosie is sleeping. Molly’s eyes cloud with worry. "How's Sherlock?"

John tries to keep his runaway fears in check. "Not good." He gestures at his mobile, gives her a sign with a finger that he hopes means to give him a few minutes. Clearing his throat, he unplugs his mobile, presses a few buttons. "Is Dawn available? John Watson, looking for an update on her patient, Holmes?" There is a pause, a few moments of listening, and John nods somberly. "Okay. Thanks. I'm reachable, if you need ..." He lowers the phone, meets Molly's eyes. The update is choppy, abridged, and sufficient. "Massive PE, hypoxic, confused. Alteplase via groin line. Then threw a clot to his left arm. Blood gas was critical, he needed intubation. Had brachial artery clot retrieval, angioplasty, and stent. Still vented on diprivan. Art line's in." He leans back, hearing the unbelievability of the update, and sets his mobile aside. "No change since I left. Sedated. His nurse was in the room with him, couldn't come to the phone."

Molly hears what he says and what he doesn't, and her eyes mist. "How can I help?"

His eyes are soft as he gives her a small sad smile. "You're doing it."

They lay out the plans for the afternoon, how John wants to overlap Molly with Lydia, the au pair due to arrive, until Rosie is more comfortable. John dozes a little more before getting in the shower, and then snuggles with Rosie, who is awake, happy as ever, and full of energy as he reads to her and breathes her in while Molly makes dinner. This weeks version of Anthea arrives, bringing Lydia to Baker Street right on schedule. John shows her around, and she is young, sweet, friendly, and motivated. Rosie is initially hesitant, but warms up substantially to the point that by the time John is ready to leave for the hospital again (and calls the number on the card Mycroft had given him), they are all relaxed. They trade mobile numbers, and John asks for occasional updates throughout the evening. She agrees, promises to send a few photos even if he wants, and assures him that he doesn't need to worry.

"See you soon, Rosie-bug," he says, and she offers him one of her favourite peek-a-boo, hidden flap books. "Oh, I think maybe Lydia will read that to you while Papa goes out." She frowns just a little, looks at Molly, looks at Lydia, and then hands the book out to Lydia.

Lydia grins, smiles broadly, affirms Rosie's action, and makes a 'go away' gesture with her fingers in John's direction as she settles Rosie on her lap. They all agree that him leaving when it works for Rosie is a good thing, so John doesn't say anything further.

Out front, there is a car already waiting.

++

The hospital seems the same, but John does feel at least a little bit refreshed. The shower, the meal, the change of clothes, and the brief time away have been restorative. But when he arrives in the ICU, the weight, the burden, settles right back down on him. The break, the time away, actually makes him feel a little guilty, given that Sherlock had to stay, that there was no reprieve for him. Sighing, he buzzes in via the intercom, identifies himself, and is asked to have a seat, that someone will be right out.

A short time later, he is brought to the room. An ultrasound technician is just finishing up, wiping down her equipment and working at the console.

"How much clot did you find?" John asks.

She levels a look at him. "Are you family?"

Her tone, John thinks, it a little abrasive, and he realises that while the staff might know him, and who he is, ancillary departments do not. "Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm John Watson. His designated next of kin. You can check the computer if you want."

"Results technically only come from the physician, you see."

_So why did you ask if I was family, when you had no inclination of telling me anyway?_ "That's fine." It really isn't, John thinks, crossing to Sherlock's side. There really isn't anything different about how he looks, other than the fact that the breathing tube is on the opposite corner of his mouth. The equipment, the infusion, everything else looks as it had when he'd left.

The nurse Dawn comes to the door, along with Dr. Benson, the intensivist. He speaks to the ultrasound technician, "How'd it look?"

She turns the screen, presses a few buttons, and some images are displayed. There is some scrolling through a few different segments, and Dr. Benson gestures for John to come over, and points to a few areas. "Large amount of clot, looks like it starts in the lesser saphenous vein up into the superficial femoral vein. Worse on the right, but present in both sides. I mean, they'll read it officially downstairs, but ..."

"Not a surprise," John replies. "Anything else changed?"

"In the few hours you were gone?" he asks with a wry grin. "Other than the fact that you look only marginally less likely to keel over, no, there's nothing different."

"Still a nice signal in the wrist," Dawn clarifies. "And a little less oxygen through the vent."

Glancing over, John recalls that he'd been on one hundred percent, and that the current setting is down to eighty, which is still very high but he supposes the little improvement is better than nothing.

"I heard that interventional radiology is expecting him in about an hour. And that the cardiologist who's on tonight called, and she wants to do the TEE afterward."

"Tonight?" John is wary. Nervous. "Is there a rush?"

"Not especially, but it would be nice if there's an opening to take it. Anaesthesia is always present to manage the sedation. And I know they always prefer to do the study when there's a stable airway already in place." Dawn sees that John is not enthusiastic. "They come right here to his room, he won't have to travel anywhere else. She's a nice lady, the cardiologist, and if you're interested, we can ask if you can stay in the room, as long as you stay out of the way. Watch the whole thing. She'd probably be agreeable."

"I don't know. I guess, yeah, that'd be good."

"First, back down to IR. Sorry, I don't mean to overwhelm you." She glances carefully at the monitors before reassessing the infusion site at Sherlock's leg, then slides a chair in place next to Sherlock's bed. "Here. Sorry." Waiting a moment for John to sit, she doesn't speak right away, let's John take a deep breath, an inhale, an exhale, a moment to be mindful. "He's all right for the moment. You, I'm not so sure about. Did you sleep?"

"Couple of hours, yes."

"And snuggled with your daughter?"

He feels his face relax, his shoulders, remembering. "Yes. She was there, and doing well. I've always loved how she ... She's quite the cuddler. So, well, yes. Read her a couple of books, settled her in at home again."

"And showered, I can tell. And did you eat?"

"Sort of."

"Doctors are terrible rule followers. Almost as bad as nurses."

"No argument from me." They share a smile, and John does feel a little bit better. "I'm okay, thanks."

She smiles again, gestures to the monitor. "He knows you're here. And he likes that," she says, pointing to where John has placed his hand over Sherlock's, is holding lightly, just resting over the back of it. "Heart rate dropped about ten beats a minute when you sat down."

The reflex, the way John has reached out, taken hold of Sherlock, was almost subconscious. He works hard not to pull his hand away.

"He likes having you close by." Her hand slides down on John's shoulder, just briefly, and it is warm and grounding. "Just like you prefer being close by him, too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So congrats to all who figured out the PFO - patent foramen ovale. It isn’t official yet, by the way, pending diagnosis through the additional testing. But it is a type of atrial septal defect. All PFOs are ASDs but not all ASDs are PFOs. [Try saying that five times fast]. And yes, it does run in families (apparently more in women in families) so ... well, let's just say that we might need to ambush Mycroft with that in a future chapter.
> 
> ++
> 
> I know there are a few things to tighten up, a few word changes to be made, which I will do over the next few days. I also didn't end up as far in the story as I'd hoped, but I wanted to get this out there. If there are glaring typos though, please let me know gently.
> 
> Thanks for keeping up with this and for hanging in there.


	8. And Then We'll Know

Chemotaxis: The movement of a motile cell or organism in a direction corresponding to a gradient of increasing concentration of a particular substance. It explains cell migration based on chemoattractant properties. It involves stimuli, receptors, and signaling. Chemotaxis, when combined with rheotaxis by a shark, for example, explains why a shark turns to swim into a current and then is driven to follow a scent such as blood in the water.

Chemotaxis is what propels a spermatozoa toward an ovum, based on stimulant and increased biological markers from the ovary which stimulate receptors through fluid media.

In more lay terms, it can be summed up, "sniff and swim."

Affinity.

++

John is kind of zoned out, relaxing in the tall-backed chair at Sherlock's bedside, when he hears footsteps behind him, the greeting of a long-haired woman. "You must be Dr. John Watson. I am Dr. Williams. Marjorie, though, please. I'm with the cardiology group here at UCL." Her hand is long-fingered and cool, her grip confident, both her smile and her eyes bright.

Sitting forward, John gives her hand a shake. "Yes, nice to meet you."

"We'll have a narrow window to get this TEE and bubble study done, best I can tell, after he goes to radiology again?"

"So I hear, too."

"Dawn tells me you might like to observe."

"Long as that's okay with you, yes. I won't be in the way?" he asks, and she assures him with a kind shake of her head that this is fine. John stretches out in the uncomfortable though padded chair, gathers his feet under him. "Haven't seen a bubble study since residency."

"We're supposed to get away from the 'bubble study' phrase, by the way, obviously I haven't converted yet. Patients apparently don't like the idea of bubbles being injected into their veins." She hesitates. "You do realise ..."

John holds up a hand, smiles. "I know. Micro-bubbles."

Her smile is quick and appreciative. "So yes. Agitated saline transthoracic contrast echocardiography is the phrase that we're supposed to use." She gives him a conspiratory grin, "Although that sounds even more frightening to me."

"I'm fine with bubble study." John can't help the question, even as he knows it's somewhat unkind. "So, what do you expect to find?"

Her eyes sparkle a little as she holds eye contact, squints at him a little. "I expect that you'll understand why I never answer questions like that. Even for fellow practitioners."

They share a small chuckle, and John expounds, "In the hunt for a PFO, seems Dr. Benton is kind of in the 'no' column. Steinberg, the 'yes.' Just looking for you to cast the deciding vote."

"Not engaging with that, John, sorry. We'll find out soon enough."

"Okay, well, if it is, what is your opinion about closing it? The PFO, if there is one."

"The one we don't know for sure he even has?" She doesn't really wait for him to agree, simply shakes her head good-naturedly with a smile and one raised, amused brow. "We're tabling this discussion, for the moment." In the pause that follows, she sees John's frown, his concern, and softens a little, knowing his worries are beyond most peoples just given his background, his knowledge. "Because there are two sides, and it's complicated. There are compelling reasons for either option, you know. So not to brush you off, but let's proceed by getting the info first, okay?" He nods, smile, nods again as her wise words sink in. It is helpful that his concerns are validated as very real and not ignored. Satisfied for the moment, Marjorie turns to assess Sherlock and the totality of the situation, checking the IV pumps, eyeing the ventilator, the monitor, and raising Sherlock's eyelids one at a time before placing her stethoscope to his chest and listening in four fields plus Erb's point. She flips the chestpiece to the bell, listens further - lungs, abdomen, back to the diaphragm and listens to carotid arteries.

While she is occupied, John wonders if knowing exactly what is going on is helpful or a hindrance, better or worse, fear-inspiring or fear-allaying. He supposes, as he sees her stand, wash her hands, wipe down her equipment, that it doesn't much matter. Either way, there are worries, just of a different variety. His worries are higher-level, complicated. But worries are worries. Her smile is kind, and he stands up as she addresses him again. "So I'll catch up with you in a few hours. Answer all your questions, and we'll work on a plan going forward. Further procedures if needed. Anticoagulants and all the rest of it. But the TEE first. And then we'll know."

++

The waiting room in IR is disappointingly familiar, as is the sinking feeling of watching the doors close that separate him from Sherlock's presence. Although Sherlock is comfortably sedated, John worries less when he has him in his line of sight. He sits, he waits, he receives a few texts,

**Rosie's doing fine. Molly's going to take off shortly. Your daughter is delightfully smart. Lydia**

**I hope you slept more than a few hours. Molly tells me you're already back at UCL. Greg**

**I understand they are doing more tests tonight? An update, at your earliest convenience. MH**

and sends a few of his own.

_**Lydia, Thanks for the update and your kind words, as I'd mentioned, a photo is always appreciated if you wish. John** _

_ **Piss off, Greg. I'm fine. Better.** _

_ **Though, thanks for earlier. I probably wouldn't have left if you hadn't insisted. JW** _

_**Mycroft: No news yet. No results. And no change. Thanks for the contact for a ride, though. Greatly appreciated. And. going out on a limb, Lydia is one of your agents, I presume?** _

In return, he gets several things: a photo of Rosie bundled in a towel, grinning, her cheeks flushed and happy, her wisps of hair tousled.

A thumbs up emoji from Greg.

And from Mycroft, a military service record screen shot that is apparently Lydia's judging by the photo and the uniform. She looks far younger than she must be, John realises, and has clearances that he doesn't especially comprehend.

The nurse from the night before, Rob, is back, and arrives with a tech in tow to escort Sherlock and the massive amount of equipment he requires for transport, back to the ICU. 

The report from the interventional radiologist is ... disappointingly without much information. "We'll keep going. And look again tomorrow." He mentions that they have again used some direct bursts of the medication directly into the clot as they have it under fluoro, which he tells John can often help and set the stage for the infusion to make some progress, interrupt the fibrin processes, so it was not a waste of time to come back down.

The ICU is a bustle of energy again, and both Dr. Williams (Marjorie) and a nurse to help with the procedure are waiting in Sherlock's room. Rob settles him, reconnects everything, makes sure things are stable, and Marjorie, her timing particularly opportune, produces a consent form, hands both it and a biro out toward John.

"I don't think I can sign that."

"There's executed paperwork on the chart that says you can."

Rather than delay getting started by arguing or confirming - though this smacks of meddling by Sherlock's brother - he cautions himself that this is best practice, medically indicated, and signs with a sloppy flair. His medical signature never was particularly legible; today, sleep deprived, stressed, running on catecholamines and coffee, it is downright unimaginably unreadable.

John watches quietly from the corner of the room. He is a bystander with privileges, and he makes himself unobtrusive as possible as the ultrasound equipment is brought in, along with a nurse to help with the procedure. An anaesthesiologist arrives and greets them all, confirms no allergies, and sets up a running line in which he will be giving medications as Sherlock needs them. Given their inability to really position Sherlock completely on his left side, as would be the normal case, they log roll him slightly, paying careful attention to keep the groin line and femoral access straight. The lights are dimmed, the nurse assembles the stopcock and syringes, occasionally pistoning them back and forth - hence the name, _agitated saline _ \- and there is a time out. It is the moment when all of them assure that it is safe to proceed - right patient, right procedure, right equipment, right location.

There is a bite block placed, and when Sherlock begins to cough and gag at the foreign object, the nurse gently suctions his mouth while the anaesthesiologist begins puffing some additional sedation into his IV until he is calmer and relaxed again. Marjorie speaks slowly, calmly, explaining the procedure and what they are doing in a low voice to Sherlock despite the fact that he probably doesn't hear or understand. John feels and senses then sees Rob arrive at his side, and they both stand quietly, watching.

"Things okay?" Rob asks, sotto voce.

John wants to chuckle a little and does so. "I could ask you, things okay?" He is keeping his voice barely a whisper.

"I think these are cool. Wanted to watch." They realise they are both standing similarly, arms crossed, and Rob shifts, shrugs, and murmurs, "Sorry for that disclosure. But it's the truth. Plus, I wanted to keep an eye on you."

Marjorie slowly and gently guides the endoscope, the thin black combination camera and ultrasound, through the bite block, to the back of Sherlock's mouth using her fingers and a little bit of lidocaine jelly, and there are a few gags, another cough, and then the tube slides easily in past the pharynx into the oesophagus. Collectively, the room sighs in relief, and there is focus on the large echo screen in front of them. "We got a full study yesterday," Marjorie explains quietly, "so we don't need much, image-wise. I'll check out the left atrial appendage, because we have a front row seat ..." and she speaks slowly, manoeuvring the scope and manipulating her hands as she watches the screen. "... and, should be, yup, just about, ... there it is."

The echosonographer presses a few buttons, clearly recording the images, while Marjorie explains, pointing to the image of Sherlock's beating heart on the screen, the heart chambers visible, the valves. "Appendage is right here, see, this curved segment here? Zoom in there, thanks. Perfectly clean, no clot. Not that we expected it, but it indicates a much less likely explanation of afib causing some - any - of his symptoms." She obtains a few more images and viewpoints, then nods at the nurse.

The stopcock apparatus is connected quite close to Sherlock, less tubing, directly into the IV site, and they wait while the nurse pistons the syringes back and forth again. As she does this, the echo tech murmurs, "I'm good anytime," and Marjorie holds the scope steady, concurs that she is also ready.

A few more back and forth, and the nurse deftly flips the stopcock, steadily injects most of the syringe of agitated saline from the more upright syringe, and all eyes are riveted on the screen. John waits, holding his breath as the right side chambers of Sherlock's heart begin to appear murkey, tiny micro-bubbles bouncing, filling the chamber just on the one side and bouncing a bit under the settings on the machine. And then, as they are looking, a faint line of bubbles in a thin but steady stream crosses directly into the other chamber, the dark chamber. A few heart beats later, they bounce around and then dissipate completely.

"So that was it. Totally positive. He's got a PFO," Marjorie says. "Sometimes we shoot another one, but that was pretty clear and conclusive."

The nurse disconnects, and Marjorie waits just a bit, still watching the chambers, valves, contractility with the scope still down in Sherlock's oesophagus. John has subconsciously stepped forward, closer, and studies Sherlock's face.

His eyes are closed, head turned to the side against the pillow. A paper chuck has been tucked under his open mouth, and his expression, his mouth, is hard to see under all the ... stuff on him. The tube holder, the bite block, all the suction equipment. His mouth though, is almost not recognisable and looks so foreign without a smile, smirk, or any of the expressions he is so good at making. So many things tucked inside and around his jaw, the endotracheal tube bad enough with its velcro straps and adhesive, but the rigid bite block with the endoscope currently passing through. It all looks so uncomfortable. One of the nurses suctions again. John cannot stop the sigh. While he is looking, he feels a cautious hand on his back. It is warm and a reminder that he is not technically alone.

Rob's hand.

And then Rob's words: "He's okay."

John doesn't want to answer out loud, feeling that the quaver in his voice will totally betray how terrible this is to watch, and not just the procedure, but with Sherlock in such grave condition.. He nods and forces himself to look away from Sherlock and over at the kind nurse who was there not only to watch as he had claimed, but to support him. A small smile of gratitude passes between John and Rob, and they both turn to look then at something Marjorie is pointing out, an incidental comment on one of the images. After she withdraws the scope, and at this point Rob comes close to suction Sherlock's mouth, anaesthesia disconnects their IV line, respiratory does a vent check, and the pillow is removed that had been log-rolling Sherlock into position.

Rob helps restore the room to order, but leaves the lights low. "He'll rest a bit. Are you okay?"

John nods. The big question in his mind, of course, is _okay, so now what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A TEE is a trans-esophageal echocardiogram, and I guess in the UK this is a TOE? Anyway, the procedure is the same, an ultrasound probe on an endoscope that does, as one of the characters says, get a front row seat to some parts of the heart that are more difficult to see using a TTE (trans-thoracic echo). That pesky left atrial appendage, for sure. And while a bubble study can be done with regular echo, in this case, the providers wanted to check out the entire thing in this manner.
> 
> ++
> 
> Given that he was already on a propofol infusion, there was probably not a lot of additional requirements for more sedation. Having an anaesthesiologist present though is just good practice, given the specific airway being used and the need for close monitoring, medication availability, and a skilled team managing our favourite patient.
> 
> ++
> 
> The week is getting away from me, and next week ...well, already looking like it's going to be a mite overwhelming. Hope this isn't too rough. But it's now or never. Or so it feels. Thanks for not giving up on this story and for reading along - you're all just so wonderful. Thanks to those who so gently point out something that slipped by me - and as usual, please let me know if I need to clarify something.


	9. Soothing the Savage Breast

Monozygotic twins - more typically known as identical twins - split into two separate individuals from one zygote. While there is no hard evidence or scientifically endorsed "proof" of the existence of twin telepathy, there are many examples of anecdotal evidence that makes the existence of twin telepathy difficult to fully disprove. Sharing DNA, thoughts, feelings, environments, and expected behaviours may explain some of the link or "sixth sense" between twins, but there certainly appears to be a greater connection. The Minnesota Twin registry, which began in 1983, has collected years and years of data on all kinds of twins and their families. The examples of twin connection and communication are often the sense that something has happened, the feeling of a strong emotion, physical pain in an area in which the other twin has been injured, the sharing of knowledge without speaking, and there are also many stories of what has happened when one twin dies.

One noteworthy case known as the "Jim Twins" documents details about twins separated at birth, in which a set of identical male twins was adopted shortly after birth and still managed to have an uncanny similar lifestyle, including names and appearances of the woman they married, names of their children, pets, intrinsic strengths, vocational interests, and vacation preferences.

The telepathy between twins, their connection, propensity toward another genetically similar person, non-verbal communication on a level not well understood - _affinity._

++

After Sherlock's endoscopy/TEE/bubble study, while he is very relaxed from the small amount procedural sedation in addition to what he is already receiving, John tucks himself into a corner of Sherlock's room. He pulls out his mobile, props his feet up on a footstool, and swaps a few text messages with Lydia about Rosie (who'd gone to sleep quite well), John's plans (probably spending the night at UCL), and Lydia texts him that she generally prefers to be in the same room as her charge and is that okay with him. He assures her this is fine, and decides to make sure he's home very early in the morning, before Rosie usually awakens, just to be there as she begins her day. He dozes more than he expects, with Rob in and out keeping watch over both of he and Sherlock, most likely. There is no change in Sherlock's condition, none whatsoever, as he heads home to Baker Street, with an assurance that he will be returning soon.

Lydia greets him at the door with tea - probably a _thank you Mycroft_ is owed for that foreknowledge, John thinks - and a pleasant smile. He is barely inside before they hear Rosie stir through the monitor, and John fetches, changes, and dresses her, carries her downstairs. 

John tucks Rosie on his hip and begins to fix her morning toast, but Lydia intervenes, taking the breakfast task from him, setting out blueberry jam, and fills then hands Rosie her sippy cup as John holds her, standing by the table in the kitchen, talking to each other very casually. Rosie listens and watches them both, and finally John sets her in her high chair. She burbles, chortles, and eventually throws the cup over her shoulder with a shriek. He retrieves it, gives her a faux glare, and says "Perhaps you should hang onto this." It gets placed in front of her, and Lydia smiles and shakes her head, entertained, at the way he interacts with her, talks to her, the faces he makes.

Rosie reaches for the cup again, holds it, then dangles it over the side of her tray, watching John for his reaction.

He raises an eyebrow. "If you're done, you can just leave it there." She wriggles it in her hand. "You don't have to --"

Rosie drops the cup again.

"-- drop it." He makes an exaggerated groan as he bends over to get it, and sets it down in front of her.

This time, she immediately smacks it with a pudgy hand and it hits the floor.

"I think she's telling you something, Dr. Watson."

"John, please." He sighs, and then shakes his head at himself, grinning at Rosie, who snorts back at him. "Not a very good game I'm teaching her is it?"

"She's having fun, but I have to say, once you leave, I don't think I'm going to pick up where you left off."

"I know."

John considers that they are the strangest co-parents ever, Lydia with her military clearance and most definitely an appreciation of an orderly lifestyle, and John with his overcompensating, his guilt and his trust issues. Lydia is smiling, amused, and he feels he needs to elaborate. "Usually, I do take advantage of these teachable moments. And when necessary, of course she hears the word no. Sherlock, on the other hand, caves in almost every time." He eyes Rosie, who is now eating and playing with her toast as she smiles back at him. "He would claim that this" and he gestures to the cup, the floor, the line between, "oh, probably reinforces her object permanence and demonstrates that we can be reliable, that we take care of her always. Usually, I would take the cup away and she'd fuss. Today, though, no. Choosing our battles, right Ro?" She makes that funny growl sound again and offers him the piece of toast in her hand that is partially chewed and not especially appealing looking.

"You realise I'm not criticising you. Now isn't the time to change any of your behaviours or your interactions." She startles then as a thought occurred to her, "And please don't think I'm going to be rigid, Dr. Watson, I'm not here to --"

"It's_ John_, remember?"

"John." She chuckles, "Habit. Be glad I didn't use your rank."

"Retired, anyway."

"It was just an observation. No doubt, she's going to be very good for me. I do find, though, that once the children in my care know what I expect, they actually behave quite well."

"I'm not worried. She knows that she gets away with things when Sherlock's here, not so much with me." He hesitates, the absence to which he refers sobering. He sips at his own tea, looking at both Rosie and Lydia, blinking, although his thoughts are far away, across town at UCL Hospital. "I'm sure she misses him." His tone is more than a little wistful.

"She's apparently not the only one," she says, then sees John's discomfort and continues, casually, "Hopefully he'll be home soon. And you'll all be together again."

"That'll be ..." and John's words sound thick so he doesn't finish the sentence. Lydia nods, a knowing smile about her. "I should call for a ride, I guess."

"I already did it for you, texted, actually. I think they're already here, waiting, whenever you're ready." Without further explanation, she helps him into his jacket, pressing another hot beverage in a travel mug into his hand. He nuzzles at Rosie's head, gives her a brief see you later sweetheart, and Lydia is shooing him out the door without him even realising she's made leaving the flat incredibly easy on both he and Rosie. 

When he gets to the hospital, into the ICU, the curtain is open, the breakaway doors flung wide and Sherlock's nurse for the day is Dawn again. She is condensing the IV pumps, poles, and setting the siderails for travel. Again.

"They're wanting him downstairs." She assures him, "They want to take a look again, as they'd said last night."

"Everything's okay?" John asks.

"Well, not to make too much of it, but since you left, his Fio2 is down to forty percent. And his sats are in the mid nineties now." She refers to how much oxygen is being delivered through the ventilator, which had been fairly high for a long time, and his saturations measured by pulse oximetry, are now within acceptable norms.

John lets that sink in, the change, the apparent progress of one of Sherlock's vital signs. He no longer requires high oxygen concentrations. It means that his circulation is better, improving, or that his lungs are aerating better. Or both. It could be a very good sign and indicative of a change in the saddle embolus - as well as his ventilation and perfusion - but he cautions himself not to get his hopes up too high, to pin his expectations on improvement at this stage of the game. "Okay." He finds Sherlock's hand under the blanket, continuing to stand there taking it all in. He sees him resting, the IV pumps, the arterial line, the monitor, the breathing tube. "Maybe they'll pull the femoral catheter? The alteplase?" Despite his wanting to be cautiously optimistic, the question squeaks out anyway.

Dawn shrugs. "We try hard not to predict anything. But if the improvement in his oxygen needs are an actual indicator, then, maybe. Perhaps. Not up to me." She finishes coiling up some of the cords on the IV pumps, secures the velcro straps on the power cords, and now that Sherlock is packed up, the respiratory therapist begins her process of changing the ventilator circuit to the portable ventilator.

"I understand."

"You want to walk down with us?"

John ponders the room, the morning he's had, the hot cup of coffee in his hand, the knowledge that he will only be relegated to the waiting room immediately. "You know, I think I'll wait here, unless you need me to help push --"

"No."

"It's okay to stay here?"

"Of course, and you can't go in with him anyway." Her tone is reassuring.

John is still uncertain, and sighs as he seeks additional information from the nurse. "He's still --?"

"Very sleepy. Sedated."

"I'll be fine here, then." John watches them, nearly ready, paying close attention to the arterial line, and finish the task that will connect the portable ventilator, unlock the bed, and all the rest. Sherlock looks the same, perhaps a bit haggard now, his chin much more stubbley than he ever lets it get, but his colour is good and he is well-medicated, relaxed. Speaking quietly to Sherlock, John leans closer, "See you soon." He squeezes the hand he is still holding, smooths the blanket back in place, and watches them make the familiar trip back to the other department.

The room is oddly empty, quiet, without Sherlock in it. The ventilator in the room is put on standby, and it has some sort of countdown as it waits for the patient's return.

The display says 31:49, and John is getting fidgety, regretting not accompanying them, worrying that something has gone wrong, when he hears a noise then looks up to see them, Sherlock, the nurse, the respiratory therapist, the bed, and all the equipment rounding the corner. Dawn is smiling as they come into the room. "Okay, so ..." and she trails off.

"How'd it go?" John asks, as they enter the room en masse, all the machines, equipment, Sherlock at the center.

"You tell me," Dawn says, and her demeanor is a little more casual although still attentive of course to the critical equipment and all that goes along with it. But then she asks a question that implies they have time for small talk, although John doesn't put that together immediately. Her eyes twinkle. "What's different now?" John first looks carefully at Sherlock. The physician in him is demanding that he begin with the ABCs. The airway, still the endotracheal tube, unchanged, and he is breathing through the ventilator. His circulation, his colour is still pretty good. A quick glance at the monitor - arterial line still in, cursory look at vital signs show to be within normal ranges. He moves quickly on. The number of IV pumps is down by two. The alteplase and one of the heparin drips are conspicuously - victoriously - absent. Dawn doesn't wait for him to speak it, but she sees that he has noticed and her grin gets even bigger as she nods. "Yes. _Annnnd,_ the femoral line is out." She whisks the curtain closed before flipping back the covers, slides the patient gown aside, revealing the top of his right leg and a clean, white gauze bandage under a clear plastic tegaderm. Her gloved hand presses lightly over it, looking for oozing, haematoma, bleeding, redness, or pain response. Although John had seen the apparatus that the infusion had been connected to, he hadn't realised how bulky, how impressive it was. Sherlock's leg, the top of his thigh, without all the clear dressings, tubings, and stabiliser ring, looks much better. Approaching ... much more normal.

"So the PE, the residual clot is ..." John begins.

"Much improved." She smiles and relief descends on John, on his troubled mind, a loosening of the anxiety-induced muscle tension in his shoulders, the center of his chest. "Much."

The next inhale, exhale John manages feels ... a little bit different, not exactly normal, but better. "Good news."

"Indeed," she says with a perky raise of her eyebrows. "They did place that inferior vena cava filter, as I believe you already knew was a possibility. They had to wait until the alteplase was done."

John is relieved at that, and glad that it didn't require another puncture, line placement, or procedure - the groin site was already accessed. "More protection." The filter is the one John learned initially as a Greenfield filter, rested like a mesh umbrella low in the inferior vena cava to catch any further clot that might break free from Sherlock’s legs, keeping them from the more central circulation. Keeping the clot from reaching the lungs. 

"Exactly. I'm pretty sure Dr. Benson'll be in, go over a plan with you. But I can already tell you that he's flat for at least four hours, I'm not sure exactly how long the interventionalist is going to write for, sometimes they want six. But before you ask me, you should know that we almost never extubate while people are laying flat. We hardly ever do a full-scale wean, either, it's too hard, breathing through what feels like a straw to him. Does that makes sense to you?"

John nods, imagining that indeed, laying flat, awake, breathing through the endotracheal tube would be ... beyond terrible. He is disappointed that further progress is going to have to wait, but reminds himself that this is much better than it had been. "And I know Rob, the night nurse, told me that the cardiologist, Marjorie, said she'd be back in so, hopefully today." Last evening, there had ultimately been no chance to ask her much about the positive PFO finding. Almost immediately after the procedure, an overhead emergency had been paged, and she'd hesitated long enough to tell John that she would seek him out as soon as she could before dashing off. "To talk to you about the PFO, review some options, come up with a plan."

John steps closer, actually helps Dawn - with her permission of course - to plug some things back into the outlets, straighten the blankets. It is easier, he realises to keep his hands in motion even as his mind is so very busy. He makes a point to assess the temperature and turgor of all four extremities, knowing Sherlock is helpless as he lays there unable to do anything, let alone complain that he is cold. And he doesn't want a repeat of the previous day when Sherlock's hand had been cold and pulseless. He tells himself that he is not obsessing, just attentive, and thankfully he finds Sherlock's hands and feet equally warm to touch with normal skin tone. Dawn zeroes and calibrates the arterial line, the room coming back into order (again) after what John hopes is the last trip anywhere for a while. She is just finishing up suctioning Sherlock's mouth again when two people enter the room. Dr. Benson introduces another doctor, the haematologist, and takes a brief look around at Sherlock and all his accoutrements, the room, investigating and very quickly satisfied and smiling back at John. "Progress, finally. I'm getting out of your way for now, but I'll be back." John nods at the intensivist, then answers the other doctors few questions about Sherlock's history, about what he recalls about the pericardial effusion, particularly.

The haematologist, Dr. Edwards, explains that at this moment there is not much to add, but that perhaps at one of the follow-up visits Sherlock should consider getting some additional testing done to make sure about platelet function, perhaps consider some of the other markers that could predispose a person to increased clotting. "I just need to do a brief examination, did you want to step out while I do?" he asks and John shakes his head no. He begins carefully at Sherlock's head, looking at eyelids, the inside of Sherlock's lip, then he looks carefully at some of the IV sites, the arterial line, Sherlock's nailbeds, particularly of the previously-cooler left hand, then pulls back almost all of the covers to visually inspect the femoral line site, his skin in general, and the petechiae on Sherlock's lower legs, one of which that is still fairly prominent. "So Dr. Benton told me you're a physician, so ... He'll continue on the heparin for now. For a while, actually. They've placed the IVC filter, definitely a good idea. And conservative approach to anticoagulation is going to mean at least a handful of days on IV heparin while you transition to ... well, I'm not sure which one they'll be recommending. Apixaban might be highest efficacy for him, either that or clopidogrel. Which shouldn't be started until at least tomorrow, at the earliest. Longer if there are other procedures he'll need. And that's providing the endo tube gets removed. Otherwise, he'll need a feeding tube short term."

John is grateful for the affirmation, the summary, and the man's opinion about the plan going forward. "Waiting to hear about the PFO, if there's a procedure. And, well, hopefully he'll extubate later today." The thought of a feeding tube is disappointing although he knows that most of the newer, effective, maintenance oral anticoagulants have to be given by mouth. John feels like he is still listening from a distance, that the person they're speaking about is ... someone else, as if for so long he's been hearing bad news, more procedures, more studies, that the embolism is massive and he's unstable. Now, the improvement is welcome news and he feels a bit off-kilter. "But you're saying ..."

"All of this is related. It's probably the DVT from the recent travel, complicated by his smoking, that caused the saddle PE, on the venous side, and then the elevated pulmonary arterial pressures, the resultant right heart strain aggravated, facilitated the PFO, if you will," and he hesitates here, making sure John understands what he's describing and when John does nod, he continues, "because of the pressure gradients, RV strain, blood moving from right to left, that precipitated the clot to the arm on the arterial side." John nods, understanding the cause and effect, the ripples and consequences of one to the other. "Really fortunate there was no stroke. That's usually how we find most PFOs, of course. I know you know that. Cryptogenic stroke."

The term draws John up short, and he finds himself yearning for the breathing tube to be gone so that they can tell conclusively that Sherlock is all right. They already know he's moving all extremities, that there's no facial droop, no focal deficit, that his reflexes are intact. But is he oriented, processing, able to speak and to see and to read? These can't be completely assessed until the sedation comes off and the endo tube is out.

++

Dr. Benson and Dawn return a bit later, and Dawn has dragged a computer to the doorway. She makes an adjustment to the IV pump while the doctor begins to explain. "So we're flat another four hours or so, until about one pm, and if there's no oozing or haematoma, we'll start to let him sit up then. So in preparation for that, we're going to start to lighten the sedation a very little bit, see if we can find a sweet spot where he's more just slightly more awake and still calm and cooperative."

John is hesitant, frightened almost, and simply looks at him, blinking, staring. 

"Something we need to know?"

"He's not going to enjoy that."

"No one ever does."

"Neither are any of us." John knows Sherlock's intolerance for frustration, his impatience, are going to be challenging.

"But the sooner we get him on a wean, the sooner we can get rid of this tube."

_Good luck with that_, John doesn't say. He does, however, watch the adjustment to the IV medication be an abject failure. No sooner do a few minutes pass after the fractional dose reduction when Sherlock's heart rate skyrockets, along with his respiratory rate. His limbs, although the movements were somewhat jerky and twitchy, escalate as well. 

"Hmm," Dawn says from the bedside, "perhaps he's not too much a fan of being awake, or even a little bit awake, with this tube."

John can only nod, and then, as Dawn tries to soothe the patient, he adds, "Can't say as I blame him. Pretty sure I'd hate it too."

She watches for a few minutes. "I can go back up on it, if I have to, but I think I'll try a small dose of pain medicine first, maybe. Here," she offers her place at Sherlock's side to John, "see if you have any luck while I go and grab the med."

Watching Sherlock's restlessness and being unable to reach him is something John finds rather distressing. He speaks quietly, tries to get Sherlock to follow simple commands or even just open his eyes or to look in his direction but the uncooperativeness becomes closer to agitation. Nothing seems to work, and he can see that Sherlock isn't processing anything well. When his eyes do open, it is spontaneously and his gaze is random, unfocused, and restless. Dawn gives the IV pain medication and it does seem to take the edge off for a few minutes, but the restlessness returns.

Something occurs to John, an idea that might help, or at least be a distraction. He opens his mobile, scrolls to a music streaming app, and searches for some string music. He opens one, selects an orchestral selection, and then sets his mobile on Sherlock's pillow so it will be easily audible for him.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Just some music for you to listen to." Sherlock's arms and legs are still twitching, restlessly pulling, his arms and the right leg restrained for his own safety and to minimise the risk of bleeding. His head turns side to side, as if he is trying to dislodge the breathing tube simply by the twisting motion. "You're on some medication to help you relax, in your IV. You're still in the hospital, remember?" His eyes twitch, almost a blink reflex in the works, and he is perhaps a little bit more settled, as if he might be _trying_ to listen. "You had a big blood clot in your lungs. Breathing tube to help you breathe." John can almost see Sherlock settle a bit, his shoulders with less movements, less restlessness, less fighting at the restraints. "Little music to help pass the time, okay?"

There is a lull of under ten seconds, and just as John thinks they might be on to something, Sherlock is off again, restlessly pulling at all the restraints, turning his head side to side, becoming more agitated, trying to sit up.

Dawn has been watching, and she tells John quietly, "It was worth a try, but he's not ready yet." Her fingers press some buttons on the IV medicine again, the propofol, and they watch over the next few minutes as Sherlock's whole body settles back down. John and Dawn finally make eye contact once Sherlock is resting again, perhaps mildly disappointed that the decrease in sedation was temporary but relieved he is calm again. "Maybe once he's able to sit up, it'll feel better." She checks again that everything is as it is supposed to be, the IV sites, the dressing at the groin, the quality of pulses in the arm with the stent in it, the breathing tube and vent settings. "Worth a try, but we'll stay the course until the time flat is done."

"How long do you expect the wean to take?"

"Depends. We lighten up sedation to almost off if not all the way off, and then Dr. Benson usually likes an hour, then a blood gas, before pulling the tube." She adjusts John's mobile so it is safe on the pillow, not ready to slide anywhere, and catches sight of John's face. "What?"

"He'll never do an hour, awake, with that tube."

"He'll have to do some. We'll see."

John can feel the butterflies in his stomach churning at the thought.

++

Time passes slowly, with site checks and vital signs and mouth care and tucking a pillow behind Sherlock's back from time to time to get his weight shifted around. Marjorie, the cardiologist, returns mid morning. "How're things looking?" she asks of John, who is passing time in the corner of the room having reclaimed his mobile.

Blowing out a nervous breath, John smiles weakly, and replies, "You tell me."

"Better, I hear." As she had done the previous day, she takes a thorough tour of the room, the IV pumps, the ventilator, the monitor, and then turns to assess Sherlock, listening, feeling, and watching. "So."

"Yes." John doesn't feel the need to speak the question out loud.

"There's evidence for both closing it and for leaving it alone." She reviews some of it with him, the risks of the procedure versus the benefits, the statistical outcomes of either option. When she is done explaining the benefits versus risks, she reaches into her lab coat pocket, pulls out an article she's printed. "Closing a PFO is done in a cath lab, and while it is certainly a procedure, it is no longer major surgery. Usually just done under local plus sedation. This summarises it fairly well. But the choice is going to be yours."

"The choice is going to be his, and he's going to want it closed."

"I'll explain it again to him, obviously, when he's off the vent. Answer all of your questions."

"Timing?" John feels that the day is already endless, waiting for permission to raise the head of the bed, begin the infernal wean process, for Sherlock to either tolerate it or not, and he just wants this to be over. He wants to go home, to close the door to the flat, to be safe and surrounded, to snuggle on the couch with Rosie. He can picture the room, Sherlock in his chair fussing about something, while John reads one of Rosie's books to her, and he looks forward to doing just that, even the ones he finds ridiculous. Although Sherlock is better, John yearns to be away from these situations that there is still such a distance ahead of them, so many things to overcome. He is impatient, and if he is, then he can only imagine how frustrated Sherlock is going to be. It is a helpless feeling, for both of them, actually, John acutely aware of it all, Sherlock really at the mercy of the hand he's been dealt and the care that's being rendered.

She smiles, and it is a fond, compassionate smile, as if she can see and sense his fear. "One hurdle at a time."

There is a chagrined smile. "I know."

"Just be in the moment for a little bit, John, even when it's hard. He's better. The PE is resolving. Breathing tube next. We'll worry about tomorrow, and the day after that, when it comes."

++

Dr. Benton - Jack, he says - stands at the bedside. The sedation is fairly low, and the official wean, the ventilator changes, hasn't even begun, and already Sherlock is restless, becoming more agitated. His heart rate climbs, and now that he is sitting with the head of the bed elevated, he is reaching for the breathing tube, first one hand and then the other. When he's not doing that, he's trying to bend forward from the waist, trying to bring the breathing tube closer to his hands.

John can't stop the chuckle. "Resourceful," he murmurs.

"Mountain, Mohammed. Mohammed, Mountain, right?" Dawn takes another visual tour of the monitor, of Sherlock, looks at John with a mirthful expression.

John is holding one hand, Dawn is on the other side of the bed, and they watch. Dawn lowers the rate of the IV sedation again. They are nearly there.

"Try the music again," Dawn suggests.

John opens a piece that he knows Sherlock likes, sets it by the pillow, and for a few moments, Sherlock listens.

_He listens._ John is sure of it.

"You hear me?" John says, keeping his voice calm. "Nod your head yes."

There is a faint but unequivocal nod.

"Listen to the music for a while, okay? We're working on the tube. I know it's awful." John blinks several times in quick succession, dispersing the extra moisture that has threatened, feeling the twinges of relief, of knowing Sherlock heard him, followed a simple command. He is processing, at least a little bit. "Isn't it?"

The nod is stronger, more agreement. Sherlock's eyes open, and he blinks, then his pale eyes stutter about. He gazes from one side of the bed to the other, finally settle and stay on John. His pale eyes are foggy, but open and tracking him.

"Good. I'm here. We'll get through this." John keeps holding one of Sherlock's hands, takes his other, brushes at Sherlock's face, by his temple. Pale eyes continue to stare into John's. There is focus, recognition. Inwardly, John can feel nothing but relief, the worry somewhat squelched, suppressed, and now that he is awake, the relief is enormous. "You're all right. I'll explain everything soon." His words just keep flowing, slowly, calmly, quietly, and he is vaguely aware that the sedation is finally put on standby. Sherlock's fingers are firm, clinging, holding fast to John's hand. "Just breathe." Jack comes in and out, evaluating from time to time. John is afraid to turn even one moment of his focus, his concentration, off Sherlock to talk with him much.

"No, you're okay. Don't pull," John says, catching Sherlock's hand that is again fussing, trying to get at the breathing tube, reaching for his face. "Hang in there." One song turns into another, and for a few moments, John can feel Sherlock's hand squeezing to the beat, his fingers moving in time with the beat, and John wonders if he's working on figuring out the fingering, what he would be playing on the violin if he had it with him. Unfortunately, though, the respite is brief, and he is moving again, and now he is faintly diaphoretic, too. There is a desperation to him now that he is more awake.

"How long's the sedation been off?" Jack asks the question from the doorway.

"About twenty minutes." Dawn hovers nearby, ready to help if needed, keeping an eye on things.

There is a pooling of saliva again, and John takes and slides the suction catheter into Sherlock's mouth, where Sherlock twists his head again, reflexively trying to avoid it, and he makes a loud swallowing noise that is uncomfortable, air rattling, his lips unable to close, the ventilator circuit and the holder keeping the tube secure. "Hang in there, okay? You're doing great."

From the foot of the bed, where Jack has returned, come the words, "Ask him to pick his head forward, up off the pillow."

John does, and so does Sherlock, following the directions. His eyes are open again, his focus still somewhat blurred, but he continues to seek and find John and then keeps his gaze there.

"Ask him to cough."

John relays this as well, and in short order, Sherlock coughs, then gags, and the vent alarms and then there is more thrashing, restless pulling, agitation, movement, and a few minutes where both John and Dawn are trying to calm him back down, keep the tubes intact, the lines safe.

"Pull it. He's ready," Jack says.

_Thank god._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting rid of that groin line, the medication that had been infusing directly into Sherlock's lungs, always a feeling of progress.
> 
> And yes, when you change a patient to a portable vent and put the other model on standby, it does involve a timer, counting upward. And yes, it may be a thing that there is a discreet competition for the best weekly time to beat. (Usually for a CAT scan of the head though, other studies are usually much longer duration).
> 
> Laying flat for so many hours is to prevent bleeding from the groin access, and especially in a case like Sherlock's where the line has been in for over 2 days, that puncture site needs some time to clot, become haemostatic, and to keep the risk of bleeding as low as possible.
> 
> Weaning parameters (readiness to liberate from the ventilator) include vital signs, mentation/following commands, work of breathing, and usually an arterial blood gas (ABG) after about an hour. It is acceptable, however, on a case by case basis, to extubate without them. Following commands, lifting the head from the pillow, and coughing are all linked with successful readiness to extubate.
> 
> Stay tuned. More medical in the horizon, of course. I should probably (forewarn and) apologise for where we *might* end up in the next chapter. *hangs head in shame* double-check, yes, remember, *happy endings tag is still there*
> 
> ++
> 
> Usual request, please let me know if something is unclear. I would actually like to work on this chapter more, but I'm afraid any longer will be over-editing and muddy the waters. Questions, too, are always appreciated.


	10. Finding His Hand

Their knuckles brush together as they walk the paved path through the walled-in garden park under dusky, heavy London clouds. The overcast day, humid but not raining, and they have sought an outing. Her gait, a little shuffling and off balance, sore hips and knees from arthritis after all these years, yet still they enjoy the fresh air, a walk, people watching, and camaraderie. The ring on her left hand, the setting ancient, the diamond small on the dullish gold band, all they could afford at the time, is etched, worn, and loved. It adorns a hand that has held flowers, a veil, their newborns, his face, his future, his arm on various excursions and events, the keys to their first home, his hand many times along many, many walks, grand babies, their ever-growing pile of health records, a cane when it has been needed, the occasional medication bottle, the magnetic door pass to their new assisted-living flat.

Their knuckles brush, and this time, his fingers seek hers, rolling, familiar after many years of this very position, this intimacy. His ankle is stiff, an old injury, shoes worn thin, exchanging the ties for slip-ons, still leather because he prefers it, his cardigan buttoned up, and they watch a family, a dog, a runaway toddler, London life. So many changes, traditional to modern, expensive to exorbitant, staunch to tolerant. A couple of bright-eyed tourists, backpacks overfilled, stand to look at the central fountain, old concrete stained with the years and the weather and the erosion of limestone, water, elements, and wind. Their steps slow on the path, listening to the other people comment on the beautiful walled-in park tucked away, how old things look, how they were so pleased the rustic, aged, _loved_ fountain was still standing and functional, the time and the years and the history embraced and not tossed over like yesterday’s news. One of them used the words ‘tribute to the past.’ As the older couple strolled slowly by, the visitors leaned in to each other, a temple kiss, a sigh of contentment.

Their knuckles graze again, and this time, their fingers wiggle, spread, entwine, interlock. Another couple just ahead on a bench, two men of somewhat disparate heights sit alongside a little girl. She holds a lolly, face rounded and sweet, wearing comfortably soft overalls, her ash-blond hair in spiky pigtails, a hand clutching a stuffed, very loved blue bunny. One of them, the taller one, dark curly hair, looks exhausted, resting, even his posture tired. A plaster adorns the bend of his arm from recent bloodwork. The shorter one is also tired, but in a different way, the difficulty of his journey in the set of his eyes. He is vigilant, concerned, and in charge. He talks casually to the little girl, pointing something out while keeping a wary eye on the other man. His hand comes up behind the bench, presses lightly on his companions shoulder, a query, a checking in, a reassurance. Faint smiles are exchanged. Under the exhaustion, they both are hopeful and determined, whatever their journey entails.

The older couple keeps walking, sturdy shoes crunching on the gravel path, their smiles also kind and shared on the journey of their own. Their hand-holding remains, a symbol of togetherness, of the innate attraction, their connection. It represents their choices, their promises, their commitment. They don’t even have to think about it as they hold hands while walking, their statement, this second nature behaviour. It is their affinity, their natural expression of their attraction, their belonging, one to the other. Seeking, finding. Comforting, comforted.

She squeezes her fingers lightly in the security of his hold, their working hands a little dry, a little calloused, but she is so fond of these hands, these warm hands of his, with which she has such a history -_ love you_. He squeezes in return - _love you, too._

Back on the park bench, the little girl finds something to hold her interest, turns to smile at each of the adults in turn, making sure they’re paying attention to her delight. The men on the bench exchange a similar, intimate look. Their hands find each other, squeeze lightly, the words spoken in touch. _Love you._ Another squeeze in response. _Love you, too._

++

"You're sure?" Dawn asks, the pinch in her eyes, almost a grimace, completely expressing that she doesn't particularly agree.

"I know. Tube coming out is ... I understand, gagging and sputum and all the rest. I'm okay with it," John assures her, his voice low. Behind them, the respiratory therapist is connecting new equipment, a cool aerosol mask, corrugated blue tubing, a disposable pad over Sherlock's chest. "Now that he's awake, I just ... I need ..." and that damnable hoarseness is back, and he can feel the crease over his eyebrows, completely unveiling his distress at the thought of being banished from the room now. "I'm fine."

"Okay." Her palm is warm over his arm, a show of support and agreement. Or at least, understanding.

She and the respiratory therapist have obviously done this many times before, there is a choreographed dance going on. Suctioning, rote words by the staff probably spoken every shift, "Down the tube one last time, Mr. Holmes, gonna make you cough, sorry." This is followed by a flowmeter adjustment, and suddenly the room is loud with mist, a mixture of oxygen flowing through sterile water, creating the aerosol that will be easier and more soothing on Sherlock's mildly traumatised airways after the tube comes out. Dawn's hands are deftly moving, and the dance becomes synchronised as she removes the tape under the velcro tube holder, suctions Sherlock's mouth while the syringe in the respiratory therapist's hand deflates the cuff of the endotracheal tube, and she commands, "Big cough now!"

Moments later, the tube is out, the face mask is elasticked behind Sherlock's head. They watch closely, those first breaths without machine assistance, listening for wheezing and stridor, thankfully hearing none. "Tell me your name," the respiratory therapist says to him, which is almost industry standard to assess vocal cord function after tube removal. 

Although John can't hear the words clearly, the reaction of the therapist and Dawn is an immediate bark of laughter.

"Should I apologise already?" John says from the foot of the bed. Uh oh, but maybe a good sign.

Dawn meets his eyes, her expression quite bemused, and she makes the statement with air quotes, "If you don't know, get away from me now." She passes the suction catheter through his mouth again, adds, "Little slurred, but something like that."

John hesitates only a second. "Blanket apologies, then."

"Just breathe easy, Mr. Holmes. Tube's out, congratulations. Not a lot of talking, okay? Save your energy." Dawn's words are gentle, unrushed as the remnants of the somewhat disgusting endo tube is wrapped and binned by the respiratory therapist. She gestures at John, beckoning him to Sherlock's side and steps away so that he can be close. Quietly, she cautions him, as she makes room, "Mind the arterial line especially."

He nods, watches as she removes the wrist restraints completely and the respiratory therapist binds up the ventilator tubing, stows it into the corner of the room. Although John understands the need to keep it close in the initial time period after extubation, in case it is needed again, he finds the machine's presence a little ominous. There is another pass of the suction device in Sherlock's mouth, followed by a mint-flavoured toothbrush/swab, and then Dawn stands back. She waits, eyeing his chest, the monitor, the little puffs of mist that disappear when Sherlock inhales. She watches with enough intensity that John studies her and then Sherlock, trying to figure out what she is tuned into.

"All right?" John fights every urge he has to get in Sherlock's face, to talk to him, to ask questions, to interact with him. To possibly place his lips on Sherlock's temple. Or the back of the hand he's been holding the past days. But he directs the question to the nurse, knowing that to talk with Sherlock is presently counter-productive and would have him expend more energy on non-essentials. Breathing for the moment is his highest priority.

"Tachypneic."

John watches, too, agrees. "Expected." His hopes the word conveys the confidence he wishes he was feeling. "Yes?" Because, yes, Sherlock is definitely breathing fast. And probably more importantly, shallow.

"Somewhat," she replies. Dawn dims the lights so the room feels a little less intense. "So, Mr. Holmes, couple of things. Just listen okay?" Blue eyes, blinking, watch her from over the clear pliable, plastic of the face mask. "Think about, and take, deeper breaths." She pauses, standing where he can see her. "Think about getting air all the way down here," and she gestures along her own ribs, from shoulder to just above her waist. "If you take deeper breaths, you'll slow down, feel better, breathe easier. And move more air." She finds two pillows from the counter, offers one to John, and keeps speaking. "Sometimes people find it more relaxing to have their arms supported, like in a great easy chair?" Tucking one under the arm on her side of the bed, John does the same on his own side, keeping the IV lines from getting tangled. "See if you can just rest a bit, breathe easy."

"What day is it?" he whispers. 

John isn't entirely sure at first. "Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday," he says rolling his eyes at himself, hearing the word 'idiot' with Sherlock's inflection. He consults the white board across from Sherlock's bed to be sure. Yes, Tuesday. "Rest if you can. I'll be here."

Dawn nods in agreement with his instruction, crosses to the bedside monitor again, where she makes some adjustments to the alarm limits. There is a frown on her face, eyes serious, a small furrow between her brows and at the corners of her mouth, but then she catches John looking at her, softens it up again.

John finds her concern, _concerning._

Sherlock's eyes drift closed, his lashes long and dark against his pale cheeks. His chest rises and falls, and over a few minutes, his breathing again becomes very shallow and entirely too fast. Dawn is back, tapping his arm lightly, calling his name to awaken him. She explains again, that his breathing needs to slow down, get deeper. While she is in the room, she listens carefully to his chest, taking her time, then moves to double check the dressing at the top of his leg, and initially, his hand flings down to keep it covered, keeping the sheet over him, preventing her from assessing it.

"She needs to check, Sherlock."

"Check what?" he whispers, and he listens to the explanation but only looks confused, then eventually, reluctantly moves his hand so she can confirm that everything is okay. When Dawn steps away again, he squeezes John's hand. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday. You're in the hospital." John knows that the days of sedation, the pain medications, and Sherlock's underlying physical condition can all play into not being oriented immediately, and that it should - _should_ \- clear over time. So he keeps the explanation very brief, assures Sherlock that he is not going anywhere, and that he should rest. And just breathe.

For a short while, Sherlock is breathing easy, but as he falls deeper asleep, it changes again to shallow and rapid. John awakens him once to remind him about his breathing. There is some serious blinking going on, and John senses Dawn is standing in the doorway, also watching. "You guys okay?" she asks.

"Little ... wifty," John says.

"Propofol," Dawn suggests. “Propofol brain. Like chemo brain. Or pump head.” Her colloquialisms, her medical slang, makes John smile. "Hasn't had REM sleep in a while."

"Hopefully."

"So as long as his oxygen levels stay above ninety, Dr. Benton is okay with this. I just don't want him to tire out, breathing so fast."

In John's peripheral vision, he is acutely aware of the ventilator tucked in the corner. It is somewhere between reassuring and threatening in its proximity.

++

A flurry of texts are exchanged by dinnertime. While Sherlock is somewhat quiet in the bed, not quite sleeping but resting, he updates Mycroft with the progress, glossing over the not quite all there yet problem. He sends both Greg and Molly a vague, mildly improving update, that he will be in touch tomorrow. Lydia, he simply asks how things are going. In response, he gets a few photos of Rosie again, in one of them she is seated in her highchair, her smile toothy and happy, and there are smashed squares of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everywhere. John is just discovering and chuckling at them when the next shift comes on, and during their walking rounds both Dawn and Rob ooh and aah over her photo, her smile. Another photo, she is sound asleep, no remnants of the earlier sandwich decoration, and tucked neatly and sweetly into her cot.

They've all agreed that leaving Sherlock to rest, cluster activity and assessments, treatments and repositioning, best they can should help him. Early in the evening, more labwork is sent, checking on blood counts, coagulation times to assure the heparin is still running at the appropriate rate, an arterial blood gas just to be thorough, and another metabolic panel. After reviewing the results - mostly expected - Rob offers Sherlock an ice chip, which he takes enthusiastically, and so John ends up with the cup of ice chips and a spoon, to dole out carefully. He is transitioned from the oxygen mask to nasal cannula, and his levels hover right around ninety with high flow rates, which, according to Rob, is marginally okay at this stage of recovery. The arterial line is discontinued, and, because it's an arterial puncture and Sherlock is on an anticoagulant, Rob holds pressure on it for quite a while to assure that there will be no bleeding or oozing from the site. Now that he is off the ventilator and there are no more blood samples to be drawn until morning, he really doesn't need it and will feel better and be safer without it.

Shortly before midnight, Sherlock's mentation seems to clear and he finally recalls that it is Tuesday. When he is awake, he is a little more conversant, less forgetful, and even manages to ask who was home with Rosie. Rob and Kathy, Dr. Nguyen, come back in the room together, give and get an update, and encourage Sherlock to settle in for the night. John and Rob end up getting Sherlock comfortable, positioned finally fairly far over on his side, and John thinks that perhaps, he will get a little bit more sleep at home. He is a little uneasy leaving, but after a while he is watching Sherlock's closed eyelids mostly, and he is extremely confident in the nursing and medical care, that he feels he can leave the building without much worry. Both Rob and Kathy encourage it, and John stands at the bedside, torn. His breathing is much improved. His vital signs are relatively stable at the moment. They are all trying not to disturb him if he is resting. They haven't really talked much yet, and John is loath to leave. The deciding factor is Sherlock himself, who reaches for John's hand once it is only the two of them in the room.

"We'll talk tomorrow, it's fine." Sherlock takes John's hand, brings it toward his face, nuzzles once, John's fingers looking solid and large in Sherlock's grip. He inhales a little bit, just savouring the scent and the presence. "I'm really ... just knackered."

John leans down close, and although Sherlock is definitely awake and alert, he is not quite himself to be certain, and deeper, more informative and explorative conversation is going to have to wait anyway. "Have them call me, if you want me to come back. Any reason at all."

"I will." His half-mast eyes drift further shut, and he looks fully and thoroughly comfortable on his side, supported everywhere with pillows, his head in a good position, the groin site at a place where Rob can actually uncover it to check without disturbing too much. Sherlock's hand releases John's that had been held by his mouth, and John slides it slowly up along Sherlock's jaw. It feels quite successful that the tape is completely off Sherlock's face, and he pushes his fingers lightly into Sherlock's hair, along his temple, his scalp. As Sherlock had done earlier, he turns into the touch slightly, nudging and enjoying the sensation, a casual caress.

"Okay." John speaks the word as much into his own thoughts as the out loud part for Sherlock. _He'll be okay. He's better._

He stops to relay the same message to Rob, that he is going home but willing to come back immediately if Sherlock needs him. The ICU is somewhat busy, and more admissions are coming shortly, the hallways and even the waiting room playing out some drama or another. Home will be better, John reminds himself, as he lets the nurses get back to their jobs, says goodbye to the intensivist, confirms that Sherlock actually looks like he might be asleep, and heads out.

++

The flat is quiet. Upstairs, Lydia and Rosie are silent, sleeping, when John arrives home. He hedges in the sitting room, thinking he could crash on the couch again, or ... perhaps a better idea to burrow into the bed in Sherlock's room. Although he may have been hoping that he would end up there - a lifetime ago, wasn’t it, they were flirting, waiting, yearning even - this was definitely not the way he would have chosen it. But he decides it is the better - not to mention much more comfortable - option. He strips quickly to pants and vest, plugs in his phone, tucks his feet between the cool sheets, and inhales deeply of the vague scent of hair products, Sherlock's poncy bath gel, and the laundry smell. John thinks it also smells a tiny bit like cigarette smoke, and finds himself wondering at Sherlock's smoking habit that he'd thought abandoned. Apparently not so.

The pillow is more firm than John's own, nice, and he tries to will himself to sleep. The sooner to sleep, the sooner morning comes. He is eagerly awaiting the opportunity to really be able to interact, converse with Sherlock. Exhausted, his body and his mind finally settle, and he falls into a much-needed sleep that is dreamless.

A few hours go by, and his dreamless sleep is briskly, explosively interrupted as he is instantly awakened from his slumber by the ringing of his mobile.

_Ringing._

He recognises the hospital number.

Oh no.

His sleepy fingers find the button. "John Watson," he manages.

++

It is not Rob the nurse, not Kathy the intensivist, and not Sherlock. He listens intently, disconnects quickly, calls the number Mycroft had left, and is dressed and on the kerb in approximately four minutes stomping his foot at the slowness of whatever branch of hell Mycroft has hired. In his mind, he replays the scant information.

" ... Rob asked me to call ... didn't wake up well ... a little more confused ... not moving his right side for a little bit ... speech was pretty slurred ... taken him downstairs ... CAT scan and possibly CTA ... " John is holding his breath, hearing his heart pounding in his ears, waiting for more words, more of an update, definitely not wanting to miss anything nor to interrupt or speak over the information he doesn't have. "Rob wanted me to let you know."

John is silent, his thoughts whirling.

"He would have called himself, but he's with the patient."

Man up, Watson. Time to action. His words, calculating, sure. "I'll be right there."

Damn.

His heart continues to resonate, to pound, and his mouth is dry the entire trip to the hospital, and he is grateful for the deserted roads this time of night. The hospital hallways are also mostly deserted once he clears through the A&E, the waiting room of the ICU also empty - lucky everyone else, his mind pokes at him - and he presses the buzzer. "Watson for Holmes."

Brief pause. "Come on in."

His strides, the sounds of his shoes, the hallway, the doorway of Sherlock's room, the curtain, and moments later John surveys the scene. Not a crime scene by a long shot, but enough clues that he huffs out a breath through pursed lips as he looks around.

Small torch on the edge of the counter, recently used for a neuro check. Bed gone, oxygen paraphernalia missing, obviously Sherlock is still wearing it, the ventilator untouched where he had last seen it so still breathing on his own. The detachable piece of the monitor gone, obviously in use. Rob's clipboard, report sheet, his stethoscope with his name engraved on the earpiece draped over the table, thrown there in a presumably hasty departure. The lights are all still on, done obviously so that there was no question about what they were looking at, to make sure there was enough wakeful stimuli for Sherlock. The doors and the curtain remain pushed open, allowing for easier access. 

John's musings, his worry, his outright fear, are interrupted by a voice. "You made good time."

He startles, turns toward the speaker, his breath heavy. The question is on his face.

"I'm Kelly, the charge nurse. I called you earlier." John waits, and she continues, "They just called up. Symptoms are mostly resolved. No CT angiogram was done. Not needed. They're on their way back." There is another pause, and John nods slowly just to prove he is listening. "Rob asked me to tell you to sit down. And breathe." There is a smile from the other nurse but John doesn't return it. He can't. The only thing John thinks he can manage is possibly being physically sick. He presses a hand on his stomach. A finger points to the chair that he occupied a few hours ago in the corner. 

John nods one more time, mutters what he hopes is an understandable thank you, but he has no intention of sitting down. There is too much restless energy, too much fear. His brain begins to supply more words and phrases, his clinician mind borrowing all kinds of trouble. Pulmonary hypertension ... still with RV strain perhaps ... the PE being resolving doesn't mean it's gone ... still with clot, could have missed the filter ... TIA, transient ischaemic attack ... plaque rupture, perhaps ... cerebrovascular accident, Sherlock's worst nightmare, waking up with a deficit, and something he had worried about before the breathing tube went down.

He listens intently over the noise of the ICU - monitors, patients, call bells, equipment, IV pumps, ventilators, the phones, the pneumatic tube system - trying to hear and sense when they return, and he is on the balls of his feet when he does finally hear metal clanking of a bed, an oxygen tank in the holder, the one squeaky wheel of the IV pole - familiar, yes, the rubbery footfalls of the staff pushing the bed. He hears Rob chuckling as they round the corner, his voice animated, relaxed, amused even. A good sign, John tells his anxious mind.

"... I just don't know how you can possibly have known that, I don't even talk to my girlfriend about that time of my life ..."

"I didn't know. I observed." Sherlock's voice is a little muted and slow in cadence, but undeniably his with a twinge of attitude.

By this time, John can see them, and Sherlock is sitting up in the bed, his head on a pillow, gesturing with both hands. He is wearing an oxygen mask again, but his colour is good. John meets them in the hallway, relieved, his hands coming up to one of the siderails, claiming his territory, or helping perhaps. Rob has one eye on the portable monitor, which John can't see, and he finishes pushing the bed into the room.

No one is terribly interested in any small talk, and John's eyes are fairly fixed on Sherlock while Rob again connects the monitor to the bedside display, pushes the IV pumps into position, steps on the lever to lock the bed into position.

Dr. Nguyen, the intensivist, comes to the doorway. "Radiologist already called, wet reading on the head CT is completely normal." She speaks slowly, lets the words sink in, looks specifically at John. "Hi John."

Rob nods, gives his own update, "Symptoms resolved, really almost normal by the time he was on the trolley. Only residual is faint facial asymmetry with a smile."

John blinks as the relief he'd felt at the sight of Sherlock in the bed traverses his entire body, spreads to his fingers and toes. "His smile is sometimes crooked at baseline, especially--"

"It is _not_." The patient is indignant.

"It _is_," John presses. "Especially when he's over-tired. Exhausted."

"Even with that, his NIH is still down to a zero." Rob gestures at the paper printout that he’d written on then placed on the foot of Sherlock's bed, referring to the scoring scale that is used when assessing patients for signs of a stroke.

"How high was it before you called me, went to CT scan?" Kathy consults the paper then sets it back down, takes Sherlock's wrists and holds them flush against the mattress, and speaks directly to him. "Push up, hard."

Sherlock complies, and Kathy removes her hands after a few moments. "Equal," she murmurs, then repeats the process on Sherlock's ankles. She gestures with her fingers to her own wide smile then to Sherlock, who - surprisingly cooperatively - mimics her expression. Kathy then looks to Rob for the answer to her question.

"Between a four and a five. Slurring, minimal arm and leg weakness - drift, actually, facial asymmetry, mild dysarthria which I could have argued between a zero and one."

Kathy nods, affirming the score and the statement, that neuro symptoms can be mildly subjective at the best of times, and turns to John. "Probably a TIA, then. Less likely fatigue, given the focal aspect. We have a protocol for treating presumed stroke, or stroke symptoms. CAT scan, CTA for scores greater than six. He doesn't meet criteria, symptoms are resolving." She cues him through a few other assessments that were targeted toward the deficits Rob had discovered. "How are you feeling, truly?" she asks Sherlock.

"All right. Breathing isn't ... normal. It's ... heavy."

"That's going to take a while. But neurologically, does anything feel ... off?"

He frowns, and glances at John as if weighing his own words, looking for clarity. "Slow. Sluggish."

"Also going to take some time, given the medications, the ventilator, and all you've been through."

"I'm missing several days."

Rob chuckles. "Good. They weren't very pleasant days, actually." 

Sherlock keeps silent, but his lips thin out and John can tell he finds that annoying. To offset the upcoming irritability, he tries to be reassuring, pats Sherlock on the calf. "I'll explain it all to you."

"Before you do that, though," Kathy says, her voice and her smile becoming very serious, and she leans against the counter in the room, "we should talk about what we're going to do next. Just as soon as I can make arrangements." Rob watches her from the foot of the bed, John from the opposite side of the bed standing close to Sherlock, and they are listening intently. "Because this, what just happened, or just almost happened, changes things." 

Although John's eyes are on the physician, waiting, he feels Sherlock's fingers seek and creep into his own as they rest on the siderail of the bed. Their fingers, with a small amount of desperation, _cling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Propofol brain - like having a hangover from the medication.  
Chemo brain - also, a somewhat frequent complaint that some chemotherapy medications, used to treat certain types of cancer, are somewhat dulling to memory and thought processes.  
“Pump head” - commonly seen in patients after open heart surgery if they were placed on the heart/lung bypass machine. All of these alterations in thinking - and many like them - clear over time.
> 
> So the NIHSS, National Institutes of Health Stroke Scale, is the gold standard in the US to objectively quantify neurological assessment. By experienced providers, it probably takes between 5-10 minutes to perform. The doctor here does an abridged version, which in my opinion is acceptable, given the fact that both she and the nurse knew the patient well. There is a level of professional respect that each trusted the other regarding their own findings. The NIHSS is apparently used internationally, but I was unable to determine if this is broadly used by NHS providers.
> 
> ++
> 
> This isn't actually where I wanted to leave off, but my _first_ stopping point was when John was notified that there'd been a problem. 
> 
> As usual, please let me know gently if something doesn't flow correctly or if a typo managed to slip by me. Thanks for all the encouraging comments and for following this little story along. I am so humbled.


	11. The Sun Shines Again

Plants need very little in life - water, sunlight, air, nutrients - to fulfill their purpose. They exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen. Some bloom, flower, grow food, others provide shade, decoration, and beauty. They grow, wider or larger, they reproduce in one way or another - off-shoots, seeds, replanting, through the soil, tubers, bulbs, spores, or cones. They germinate, reach for the surface of their growing medium, unfoil in the light, spread out to maximise their leaf exposure surface area, soak up water, warmth, and light. There is also some amazing design: a light-sensitive protein, a hormone found in these plants, actually causes physical change that enables the plant to find not just light, but the _shortest route_ to the light. Phototropism causes the cells farthest from the light to elongate out of proportion to the cells nearer the light, angling the stem, stalk, or leaf in a particular direction.

The hormone responsible for this process is auxin. Apparently Swiss scientists were able to either remove or deactivate it, causing the plants to simply grow straight up. There was no response to the location or strength of the light source for these desensitised plants. Without auxin, the plants have no affinity toward light.

Behind the quaint, cozy, getaway cottage is a walking path that winds through a rocky hillside, a meadow, along a few patches of trees, not far from a wetter area that grows to a little run-off creek after a heavy rain. One man walking is sporting a small backpack which contains water bottles, a few snacks, some containers, supplies for whatever adventures they may find. Buried deep in the bag are a few rain ponchos and plasters because he has learned by experience that preparation, particularly given his typical two favourite travel companions, cannot be understated. Another man bends slightly, his long coat flaring out, to peer over the shoulder of a five-year-old girl, who is marveling at an unusual finding.

"Look what I found! Why does it look like this?" she says, pointing to a tree with almost a ninety-degree angle in its trunk, several meters of the base part laying almost flat on the ground, the roots having adjusted to a new angle of being tipped over many years ago, the ground quite mounded, and a new trunk angle grows straight up. "It's funny." She stands on the lowest part, her hands holding the upright section of trunk. She looks straight up the trunk, her one long ponytail hanging down low and wafting in the breeze. With both hands, she shakes at the tree, jostles it only enough to very faintly make the leaves above her quiver.

Rather than answer her directly, he asks a question of his own. "Well, what do you know about how trees grow? Perhaps you can solve this mystery."

She looks back at him, sees the confidence in his eyes, his belief that she can indeed use her brain and figure this out. So, empowered, she climbs down, studying the tree. Slowly, she circles it, her fingers pinching at her lips as she has seen modeled by both men in her life. She says very little initially, peering at the root structure, some of which is still visible, at the angle of the tree, at the scarred areas of the bark, the trunk. She looks around, sees some other trees a distance away laying tipped over, considers the breeze that blows upward, their present location, unprotected for the most part from wind and weather. "I think ... a long, long time ago, that this tree had a very bad day." She tips her head, smiling at the rapt expressions of the men watching her, her very own audience, and she pauses, enjoying their attention and their fondness. "And then the sun came out and started shining again. And the tree noticed."

++

John watches the bed, Sherlock's mode of transport yet again, disappear into the holding area of the cardiac cath lab. He has done this, he thinks, too many bloody times in the last few days. Left behind, again, he sighs, another all too familiar state of being. Empty, nervous, edgy, unsettled - he has considered all the adjectives. He is forced to endure the isolation while Sherlock endures another version of hell. The separation, as well as the situation, is hard on them both for different reasons. But at least, John snipes to himself, Sherlock usually gets a little sedation. John gets stuck in his mind, the cycle of worrying and wondering, sometimes made a little better with a cup of terrible hospital coffee. He looks around, finds the coffee, takes a sip, perches in a vinyl chair to wait. Surprisingly, the coffee is in the more palatable range of fairly enjoyable.

The nurse, one John hadn't met before today, returns quickly, through the doors which close behind her, stands at his knee. "You okay?"

John makes the decision. "Yes." Though he admits to himself that he really isn't.

"Call someone to come wait with you."

"I'm fine."

She glances at the clock on the wall, looks back at John doubtfully. "I gotta get back, but ... they hopefully shouldn't be too long." She clearly doesn't want to leave John by himself, and can see that, despite his words, this is hard on him. "I can call ... I think Rob told me in report, someone else was here, his brother?"

"No, really. Not necessary. Thanks."

++

Sherlock's fingers are squeezing hard on John's hand as the doctor explains that, because of the known hole, the neuro symptoms that had manifested earlier, even though they didn't linger, that closing the PFO is now the safest recommendation. By taking care of it now, she explains, it will prevent further problem, eliminate the possibility that another clot could pass through, this time with serious, more permanent residual impairment.

"What hole?" Sherlock's voice is tight. "What are you talking about?"

John leans in, "I explained some of this. You don't remember?" He realises immediately that Sherlock doesn't, adds, "Which is fine. Understandable."

"Blood clot in the lung, was what you said." From behind the oxygen mask, Sherlock looks at John, a little bit accusatory. "From clot in the leg."

Dr. Nguyen steps in then, "Yes, and as a result of that, there was another clot that went to another artery in your arm, and we ended up finding what's called a patent foramen ovale. A PFO." She explains the basics of what it is, how prevalent it is, and that because of the little scare he'd given them overnight, that there was now some urgency in closing it. She makes sure that John is agreeing, that Sherlock is at least somewhat processing. "We got lucky this time, and waiting any longer is unacceptable. It's not worth the risk." Her smile is kind as she makes sure that they know she is sympathetic to his situation. "I know it's a lot. This combination of problems, truly, it's overwhelming. But I seem to remember that first night, when you were having such trouble breathing, you were concerned about being left with any kind of deficit. So that's what we're helping to assure: that you're as protected as possible. That we prevent anything else from occurring."

There is another nurse at the doorway, and Kathy steps over to talk with her, consulting about something else, so while she does, John picks up their joined hands. "You're going to be okay, you know. Progress."

The face Sherlock makes in response is quite cynical, the faint pout, a snort. Annoyed. He turns his head so that he is not looking at either John or the doctor.

Kathy speaks again. "So I'm just waiting on the interventional cardiologist to come by, explain the procedure to you in a little more detail, obtain consent. They'll be able to help you understand the risks and benefits, answer all of your questions." She pats at his arm, and when he turns to look at her, she smiles encouragingly at Sherlock. "You've made a lot of improvement, and defied some fairly tricky odds, honestly. So let's be thorough, take care of this too."

He grouses a little. "There's just no end to my lucky streak, now, is there?" His caustic words, the sarcasm, are unmistakable.

"It will ultimately be your choice. And I hear you, that this is kind of bad news. But it's treatable. And you've come through so much of it already."

His jaw changes shape as he apparently clenches his teeth.

"When?" John asks.

She considers Sherlock's unreadable expression, his irritation. "I'm hopeful it will be today, but nothing's official until someone with more authority than me deigns it so. The cath schedule is not that tight, best I can see." She takes hold of Sherlock's toe through the sheets. "Hang in there. Another step closer to putting all this behind you."

He seems stony as John untangles his hand from Sherlock's and wordlessly follows the doctor into the hallway. Kathy walks a fair distance away, to keep their conversation from being right at Sherlock's doorway, before addressing John. "It's understandable, his aggravation. And I figured you'd have a few questions."

"What about the IVC filter? Isn't that in the way?"

"Best research indicates no, that the filter is easily crossed with the catheter used to deploy the closure device. It's going to be practitioner specific, though. Some docs choose to use either brachial or Jugular vein, but of course we would try to avoid his left brachial anyway, because of the stent. I'm not sure which of Dr. Williams' partners will be doing it. It'll be ultimately up to them."

John considers the most pressing questions, of which there are many, chooses one. "The risks, I understand. Will he need intubation for the procedure? Because, oxygen wise, he's still at over six liters and probably isn't going to tolerate being flat too well on top of it."

"We would of course try not to intubate, particularly given that he just came off the vent, what, yesterday. It's a sixty to ninety minute procedure, and all of it with anaesthesia present. Local plus sedation should be all he needs." Kathy smiles at him, a sad smile that kind of sums it up, the hard spot they are in.

"The heparin drip?"

"Continues until they start. Sometimes they reverse it, then rebolus at the end of the procedure, depending on his labwork." She looks him in the eye, and there is some support just in the confidence, the acknowledgement that this is hard. "Emotional roller coaster for him. You too."

"Thanks, I uh... " John points his thumb over his shoulder toward where his flatmate, best friend, and, right this moment anyway, the main focus of the day, lies, "I should get back I guess."

Sherlock's eyes are closed when John goes back in. The monitor, his position, his colour, all looks okay. He is still breathing fairly quickly, his oxygen actually at eight liters now, bubbling through a bottle of sterile water, and his oximetry readings hovering at ninety. John hopes that this is just a result of the activity, the transport, all the moving in these early morning hours.

"I want something to drink."

"Well, actually," John begins, "with the procedure later, you can't actually --"

"Never mind."

"I could get --"

"I really don't want to talk right now."

"Are you angry with me for some reason?"

"I'm angry at life."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And I want a cigarette."

John decides to keep quiet about that for the moment.

"Just leave me alone."

John considers doing as requested, briefly, but chooses instead to perch lightly on the edge of the chair in the corner of the room. He sees and senses that Rob is back, another nurse, change of shift, and they do a bedside hand-off, the same neuro assessment that's been performed.

Sherlock growls as soon as he realises what is going on. "If you ask me my name, my age, and what month it is, one more time, I swear I'm going to lose it."

The new nurse chuckles then mumbles at Rob. "Okay, you warned me. Feisty? I can do feisty," she says a bit louder, intentionally looking to be heard. She touches Sherlock's arm, while Rob and John look on, sensing that this new relationship between Sherlock and this nurse will get off on the right foot regardless. "So, fine. Give me the answers without me having to ask. And then do all the steps of the exam." He is surprised, and a little bit impressed. "Come on now, it's been done four or five times already. You should have no problem."

Sherlock narrows an eye, looking every bit like he'd like to tear her to shreds for the sheer enjoyment. "Sherlock Holmes, age thirty seven. The month is May." He closes his eyes, squeezes them tight, and then when he opens them again, and raises his eyebrows. Then, he holds out both hands, making each into a fist before relaxing them. There is a pause, and they exchange challenging looks. "I believe this is your cue, I will follow your fingertip ... with _'just my eyes_,'" he snarls, mimicking the typical directions but with a bit of venom.

"All righty then," she said, obliging, then checking visual fields with the wriggling of her fingers in Sherlock's peripheral vision.

A few minutes later, he has demonstrated limb strength, slid his heel down his shin on both sides, touched the nurses outstretched finger to his nose, back and forth repeatedly. He explains the pictures without looking at them, misses only the cactus from the page. He then recites the lists that ends with huckleberry and baseball player. Both nurses as well as John are trying not to grin but failing miserably at his performance. None of them comment on the unusual nature of what the patient has just managed to do.

"Thank you. Well done," the nurse finally adds, though there is a bit of tremble (from laughter suppressed) in her voice, and when he hears it, he glares hard.

"I believe my score is still a zero."

"Yes."

Before there is more friction between them - in a very good way, John thinks - the hand off continues. Rob signals the IV pumps, confirming the heparin infusion that is infusing, the amount remaining, and they verify palpable pulses in all four extremities, that the dressing is dry over Sherlock's femoral access site, and ask if he needs anything.

"Just some peace and quiet would be nice." The glare turns on John, then. "And to be left alone."

From the doorway comes another voice, from one of two people wearing green scrubs. "Before you get to that peace and quiet bit, I'd like to talk with you first. I work with Dr. Williams." He introduces himself, the man with him as the anaesthesiologist, and they stand close by the bed. "I'd like to talk with you about how I'm going to, with your permission, fix your PFO, that small hole between the upper chambers of your heart."

Sherlock purses his lips, and John can almost imagine the scathing retort the man is liable to get, the come-uppance. He appears to be almost literally biting his tongue as he says nothing but makes a gesture that means, 'go on,' with his fingers.

He describes the small hole succinctly, factually, citing some brief statistics as well as prevalence. He explains the dangers of leaving it untreated now that they know it's there. "I would be making the assumption that you do want it fixed, Mr. Holmes. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but your livelihood depends on a significant intellectual advantage." Sherlock glances at John then back at the doctor. "Yes, I know who you are. Read about your ... adventures a few years back. Follow the blog. I would hate for you to risk having an actual stroke, for someone so brilliant and so young, am I right?"

There is a huff, a sigh, a deliberate choosing to be reasonable. "Of course. Pull up a chair." Sherlock's voice was a thin wire of annoyance. "And please, this is my partner, Dr. John Watson. The author of that blasted blog," and this is said with muttering annoyance. "We'll be making this decision together."

"I'm going to be direct." He smiles at John although his words were something of a warning, and then sits down.

"We appreciate that," John says when Sherlock is silent. John can see a few worry lines on his face.

"Although we can't specifically prove that a PFO increases your risk of stroke, we do know that patients with cryptogenic stroke," and he pauses here waiting for Sherlock and John both to nod that they understand cryptogenic to mean without other known cause, "the likelihood of PFO being present is somewhere around forty percent. Four patients in ten."

"I am quite aware of how to calculate percentages to a population sample thank you." Sherlock snarls. "Moving along then."

"Quite intentionally done, Mr. Holmes. I find numbers like that make it quite personal." He does not back down, holds Sherlock's attention and tolerates his rather abrasive attitude in both words and body language. "Add to that, overnight you experienced a TIA, a transient ischaemic att--"

"I know what that is."

He doesn't miss a beat. "--ack that resolved completely. Because of that, your risk went up exponentially. Statistics tell us that just the TIA alone, you probably have a twenty percent chance of having a stroke within ninety days, and a twenty percent chance of suffering a catastrophic event within a year. And those numbers do not factor in the PFO." When Sherlock is quiet, he waits another period of time. "I can further describe what I mean by catastrophic event, if you'd like."

"No. I understand morbidity and mortality, thank you."

"There are a lot of things we can do to lower your risk, prevent complications. The most pressing one, of course, is --"

"Hand me the form. I'll sign." He holds out a steady hand, but for a moment no one moves. "I do hope if something happens to me while under your care, for example, you have a wire and a device in my heart, you'll find it possible to act a bit more expediently?"

"Before you sign, the risks include --"

Sherlock takes an impatient breath, but before he begins a torrent of further criticism, John intervenes. "Let him, okay? He has to, and it's important."

A few moments later, the paperwork is signed and Sherlock has consented to a percutaneous transcatheter closure of his patent foramen ovale via femoral vein. The anaesthesiologist has reviewed the plan for moderate sedation but cautions them all that they will use whatever necessary to proceed safely, which includes invasive ventilation if it becomes necessary, and the interventional cardiologist hesitates at the door. The emotion, the tension, is much less in the room, and he wants to be sure that all of them are settled and at peace with how plans stand. "Any further questions, either of you?" When neither speak up, he shakes hands with John, mutters a quick compliment about the blog, in which John does occasionally still post in. He tells Sherlock that he'll see him in a few hours.

"Actually, I do have a question. How soon can I go home, afterward?"

"That'll be up to the rest of your team. From my standpoint, after the procedure, usually patients go home the next day. But you'll be longer than that, with the PE, the stent, choosing the right oral anticoagulation." He doesn't stay to engage further on the subject, simply waves, disappears.

"How long will I be here?" Sherlock asks John, who is reluctant to answer and Sherlock knows it immediately. "Just tell me, your best estimate."

"I'm not sure. One day at a time, yeah?"

"Give me a range then.”

"I don't know," John tries outright pleading ignorance.

"Yes you do. Just, for gods sake, just ..."

"A bunch of days on the IV heparin. And they're still trying to decide how many other oral meds you'll need. Apixoban is usually the drug of choice after pulmonary embolism. But you have a stent, and all of those guys will probably be pushing for clopidogrel too."

"Don't just throw out big pharmacology words thinking it'll distract me."

"You would have also been unhappy if I'd chosen the generic 'blood thinner' category too. What it boils down to is deciding what is most appropriate therapy, and getting started on it. Until then, the heparin continues."

"Just shoot me now."

"Good thought," John retorts. "And maybe we should do it before we start all of those blood thinners, I mean, what's the fun of bleeding out when it's easy?" He knows when it is safe to push Sherlock's buttons, decides that he might as well jump in with both feet. "Although the heparin is running still."

"Three days?" Sherlock presses for an answer. "Maybe we could just do all this at home?"

"I think I heard something perhaps minimum of three days." John would have cut off his own leg before telling Sherlock at this stage that they might actually be looking at five, to be safe. "But hopefully we can get you moved out of the ICU soon. Another room will actually feel much better."

"_Baker Street_ will feel much better."

"And we have to try to wean you off the oxygen. Or arrange for some at home, maybe just at night while you're sleeping." He dims the light in the room, hoping that less stimulation will help Sherlock rest, pass the time. "Good choice, by the way." The kidding, the fussing is over, and John's tone is serious.

Sherlock matches it. "You know as well as I, there really wasn't a choice to make."

"Still, you could have unleashed the beast of Sherlock Holmes on him, on all of them actually, and you didn't."

"I'm saving that for you, if you don't get me out of here soon." The serious, thoughtful exchange lasts only several sentences, until the punchiness kicks back in.

"Fantastic," John breathes, starts to giggle a little anyway, knowing that there is truth under the threat. Sherlock doesn't join in, but he does smile a little. John is quite glad to see it. "One day at a time."

++

John looks up each time the door opens, or each time someone passes by the desk, but even so, when he looks up at one such interruption in the doorway, he is gobsmacked to see Lydia there.

He is already on hyper-alert, and on his feet without conscious decision. His hand presses on his mobile in his pocket, and he knows he didn't miss a call. "Is everything okay?" he asks, then spies Rosie in the stroller, holding onto one of her favourite items this past week, a fabric book with crinkley pages. She makes a noise of greeting, holds out the book to him.

"Fine. Just thought we'd come keep you company." She smiles, "Sorry to have startled you."

John puts two and two together and finds that it equals the nurse having called Mycroft anyway, even though he'd claimed it was unnecessary. "I'm glad to see you. But they needn't have called you, and ..." he gestures toward the desk, conveying that he wants and needs to stay close by.

There is more noise at the door, followed by another familiar voice. "I'll be here so you can go entertain your daughter for a few minutes. There's a small cafe a short distance, actually just down the hallway." Mycroft stands tall in the doorway. He is in full take-charge mode, and while John innately wants to argue with him _just because_ (a behaviour not only learned but absorbed from Sherlock of course), he does actually think that a few minutes away from the interminable waiting is not a bad idea. And of course, to spend a few minutes with Rosie. Consulting his mobile for the time, he realises that even if they started the second Sherlock was taken back, he still had probably close to an hour before there was any news. "I will notify you immediately with any update." Mycroft waggles his mobile, touches a button.

John's mobile buzzes with an incoming text. It reads simply, **I highly recommend the cranberry scones.**

John finds that, fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was correct. He and Rosie have shared a scone, along with the reading of her book, a few full body snuggles, and although normally she is in constant motion, for at least some of this time she is a little different. She has certainly toddled around the tables in the cafe, but not for long. It isn't more than a few minutes before she climbs into his lap, tucks her little head against his shoulder, her hand clutching his ear (which he quickly relocates to his collar), her nose in the crook of his neck, and seems to really enjoy just being close to him. He feels exactly the same, her sweet smell and her hair and her pudgy fingers - all things he's been missing. "I'm glad you came to see me," he says to Rosie and means it just as much for Lydia. He sets a mental task to also say thanks to the nurse who overruled him and made the call anyway.

"It's no trouble. Was thinking perhaps, once Mr. Holmes is better and in a different room out of the ICU, a visit now and again might work. Be something of a distraction. In between naps and such."

Fifteen minutes after that, Rosie is cruising the room again, orbiting around John, and another few texts come through. **Procedure completed, no complications. This is all from the secretary, but the doctor says he'll come visit you both in Sherlock's room later.**

**No ventilator, I'm to tell you. And only minimal obstinance. Which in my opinion they could have prevented with a heavier hand on the sedatives.**

**He's got another 30 minutes in recovery. Come back then to that main waiting room, and they'll let you back with him. I will wait here until you arrive.**

John can feel a good deal of relief at the news. No complication. They should begin moving forward with recovery now, he hopes. With Rosie still snuggled up against him, he answers the texts with one of his own. **Thank you. For the update and for getting Rosie here.**

He chuckles to himself, sends another text. **And for the cranberry scone recommendation.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an absolutely great article about all of the procedure, the contraindications, the technical aspects of it:  

> 
> [Click here to read.](https://www.ahajournals.org/doi/10.1161/JAHA.117.007146)
> 
> ++
> 
> So I get to the end of the chapter and it's kind of like a Forrest Gump chapter, all taking place while sitting on a park bench, except that this time it's a waiting room. I find that I'd rather keep the chapters this length so that I can post more frequently. The PFO (patent foramen ovale) closure is a minor procedure done while the patient is awake, with some sedation, pain medication, intracardiac echocardiography, and careful monitoring while the device is deployed. The devices are made of nickel-titanium, mesh, and some with specially designed foam. It's done a couple of different ways (reader's choice) and most commonly akin to a sort of "occluder" that is custom chosen based on PFO size, and then attached to both sides of the hole. Complications include rhythm disturbances (afib, most commonly), stroke, bleeding, thrombosis, pericardial injury, or embolization of the device. Is it a spoiler if I just lay it out there that no complications are planned and no fictional character has been harmed as a result of this procedure?
> 
> Progress, though.
> 
> As usual, blah blah blah, let me know if something is unclear. Thanks for reading. I appreciate every single comment, kudo, and telepathic encouragement.


	12. The Game is Afoot

His first upper school job, thanks to a growth spurt and a short-lived interest in weight-lifting and the resultant upper body muscle definition, was doing line security for a night club, checking IDs, line control, and incident prevention. He learned to communicate with body language, an implied threat, a low voice, to choose clothing that showed off the brawn. When that proved tedious, he found a position at an industrial organisation owned by a friend's uncle. The company'd been having problems with overnight thefts, possibly from the inside, and he was hired as a temporary evening shift materials management. His real job, though, as an unknown outsider, was to figure out what was going on, where their product losses were coming from, and how to prove it.

He worked hard, lifting crates and boxes, moving inventory, kept his head down and his eyes and ears open, and was beginning to think that the problem had solved itself when one evening he noticed two of the workers moving boxes to a more remote area of the loading docks. He snapped a few photos with his mobile, paid attention even as he kept to his own task, and watched discreetly as papers were switched, a small truck arrived, materials were offloaded, and the workers returned to the main storage area. It was low-key, involved minimal people, and he'd been in the right place at the right time - and mostly, vigilant.

His report, along with photos, observations, and times were passed along to his supervisor. He was thanked and, according to the plan, dismissed. It occurred to him that he'd worked himself right out of a job. Part of it, the undercover assignment part, he had really liked.

A week or so later, there was a man in a suit waiting for him after school. He'd extended a hand. "I'm Stan Harrison."

"Greg Lestrade." He glanced around, hesitant, and did not offer anything beyond his name.

"I'm looking for the bloke who managed to put a couple of retail merchandise thieves in jail. Some photos, careful detail, and heads up reporting apparently solved the crime without the thugs even knowing who put them away." Greg simply blinked, kept his mouth shut, and waited. The man opened his wallet, flashed a Detective Inspector badge, from New Scotland Yard, and then asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that now, would you?"

He blinked a few times, wondering what this was all about, a little concerned. Wary. "It depends." At the man's amusement, Greg grew a little bolder. "And what did you say your connection to the company was?"

"Fair question. None of them sent me your direction, if that's what you're wondering. We'd kept a file, and when I went to close it, something ... intrigued me. I simply reviewed the employee hiring and firing records. Thought there might be a connection."

"Okay."

"Now and again, we meet a young man, or a young woman, worth investing in, someone we'd like to consider some special training. Mentorship in the future. It only took a little digging to find your connection to the owner." Greg's smirk was brief but enough to have communicated the truth to the man in front of him. "To have put this together on your own, was ... let's just say impressive. And I may have a proposition for you that includes a combination university education along with some on the job experience."

"Then I might know a thing or two about that particular warehouse job." Greg couldn't stop the faint pride at what the man had said. "They never figured it out, eh?"

"Learning to blend in is also a skill." Stan shook his head briefly, and moved on to the point of why he was there. "If you're interested, I would recommend getting into a couple elective courses. Foundational criminology, forensics, just to see what's out there. It's not a direct start to constable, but the City has some options for you. I recommend it, particularly if you'd like an accelerated career path. Possibly an internship." He handed him a business card. "My direct contact information. And I'll be in touch."

Greg cannot hide the sparkle, the interest, the passion for the opportunity, that flared in his expression as he pocketed the card.

Indeed, there are people with certain skill sets that manifest early and lend them toward certain professions, whether it be humanitarian, technical, analytical, or simply an interesting combination of these mixed with passion. And certain people simply have an affinity for a highly specialised career path.

Affinity, being naturally drawn and gifted, was something Greg had to policework, and it ended up as a key force that gave his life and his career a distinct direction. His natural ability and skill would serve him, his friends, his community, and his vocation quite well.

++

"Family for Holmes?" There is a staff member in the doorway of the cath lab waiting room.

John stands. Mycroft, as he'd indicated, had only waited until John had come to the cath lab waiting suite. He'd asked for an update later, when John had a chance, and thought that perhaps he would come back later to visit when they were settled back into the ICU.

"Yes." John follows the nurse back to a holding area, where several occupied beds in a big room are in various stages of their own journey - the curtain pulled as they are prepped, or waiting, recovering. He only has eyes for the bed with the familiar patient.

"He's been ... asking for you, and is ... quite anxious to return to his room." She leaves unstated that he has likely been complaining or a bit demanding. The message comes across plainly in her tone and inflection.

John is not wrong in his assumption, and Sherlock catches sight of him, immediately letting the words fly. "Let's go, John. This is ridiculous. You can certainly just ..."

"Stop." John approaches, tries to quiet the fussing and complaining. "When it's time, you'll be allowed to --"

"This room is ridiculous, and freezing. This whole --"

"So, it went well, I hear." John attempts a redirection. "It's done."

"I needed more sedation, and was totally bloody awake through all of it --"

"Which is why you're breathing and speaking, no ventilator --"

"No one listens here, John, even you."

He grits his teeth before reacting to that, and counts to ... well, he _thinks_ about counting to ten. "Shall I just wait for you back in your room then?"

"Yes, why don't you just go and _do exactly that_, abandon me in my_ hour of need_."

"Tell me, Sherlock, exactly what do you possibly need right now? Hmm?" John leans in so that he doesn't have to raise his voice to convey his frustration, and he feels bad for the question as soon as it is asked. "Sorry. Sorry. But let's ... just wait it out here, and you're making such progress." He reaches for Sherlock's hand under the warmed blanket there in the recovery area and holds his tongue, lets their emotion settle. "Truly, you're ... you're getting there. Today's been good. Another step toward ... getting better, okay?" The whisper is punctuated by a faint squeeze of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock has closed his eyes and his face is kind of scrunched up with annoyance. He doesn't answer, but his fingers twitch once and then squeeze hard, tight. John returns it and simply is there for a few moments. It seems that, perhaps, Sherlock's tight grip is multifaceted in motivation - he is irritated, but also probably afraid, impatient, and uncomfortable as well.

He takes stock of Sherlock's position, with his head just slightly elevated, which is nice as opposed to flat, an unexpected blessing of sorts. There is an IV infusing by gravity, just dripping at a moderate rate, to help clear the sedation and for quick blood pressure support if needed. The heparin infusion still running. He looks at the cardiac monitor, vital signs are okay, heart rate a little fast (upset, most likely) but his breathing seems baseline (slightly quick) and his oxygen delivery is the cannula still, so even at six liters, is still good for where they've been. His skin colour is his usual pale, and the blue line of his pulse oximetry has a numerical value of ninety-five.

One of the nurses comes over then, does a double check of his femoral groin access, of the pulses of that leg, all palpable, and cycles another blood pressure (on the right arm, of course, there is a pink limb alert bracelet on his left because of the previous intervention, the stent). She must have heard his comment about freezing because she has brought over another warm blanket. He fusses when she deftly removes his layers to spread the warmest one directly on him then covers him with the other blanket to hold the heat in. "Looking pretty good. Another ten minutes or so, and I'll call report back to the ICU, take you back to your room." She smiles at them both. "You okay?" Sherlock's lips thin out and he nods halfheartedly. "Hang in there. You'll be out of here soon." She looks to John. "Questions?" When he shakes his head a bit, she smiles again, more heartfelt. "Couple nice deep breaths now and again. Good for your lungs, oxygen levels." She waits while Sherlock does make a few attempts, although on the last one, he triggers a very faint cough and she helps apply pressure to his puncture site, checks that it is all right. "Maybe not quite so deep, but it's still important." She nudges John with her arm. "Thanks for coming to keep him company. He looks more relaxed, a little less anxious, with you here." Her hand smooths the blanket once more, and she pats Sherlock's ankle. "You had a little something for pain, right as they were finishing. But let me know if you get uncomfortable again, okay?"

Time passes slowly, with neither of them speaking overly much, and the nurse calls report and then shortly after that, John follows the staff pushing Sherlock's bed, delivering him back to the ICU. There is another hand-off, the dressing is checked along with pulses of his feet, and a targeted neuro exam. As has been the case previously, Sherlock's nurse performs a thorough assessment including the neuro exam that Sherlock had fussed about so much previously, although this time he is mostly just flat and a bit caustic. She pulls a computer to the doorway so she can fill them in on the expectations for the rest of the afternoon and evening, reviewing post-procedural orders with them. "No stress on the groin puncture site. Bedrest, with the head of the bed elevation no more than thirty degrees, which it's at now, after four hours, you can sit up more. Perhaps, as long as six hours have passed and the site is okay, if you're feeling adventurous, you could get into a chair around dinnertime."

"Ah yes, actual dinner?" He snorts. "Because I'm sure you still have me on the ice chip and starvation diet."

She purses her lips. "Welcome back, Mr. Feisty, good to see you again. Clear liquids now, healthy heart diet for dinner," she says, not really even missing a beat, "provided you're not nauseous and can swallow okay. There are pain meds if you need them. Looks like the heparin will continue." She continues looking at the orders. "Clopidogrel will be once a day, to start tonight. Apixoban is twice a day, starting in the morning. These are both blood thinners, one to treat the PE and prevent another, the one starting tonight is protective of the stent, helps keep it safely open." She clicks a few more buttons, reading through what seems to John a ridiculous amount of time-wasting things to document on, read through, and verify. "Urinary catheter comes out at midnight, you'll be at some point expected to urinate by six or so tomorrow morning. And those foot pumps stay on, at least for now. Keeps blood flowing and prevents clot development."

"Because goodness knows, I think I've had enough clot, ta very much."

"No arguments from either of us. Yes, your stylish footwear stays on." She scrolls a bit more. "Deep breaths now and again, clear out that mucous. Save the coughing though for after your activity restrictions are up. Incentive spirometre tomorrow. That's all I have. What haven't I explained to you?"

"So if we're starting the oral pills tonight, I should be able to go home tomorrow." It isn't even a question and John's breath catches. _Bit not good._

"Oh, I don't think so." She speaks slowly as she looks with a small amount of alarm at John, who looks back at her with the same concern. "I think it's going to be a few days, actually, so that --"

_"Days!"_ He blurts the word out, incredulous. "John!" He tries to press up on his elbows, to better express his ire from a more upright, more authoritative position.

"Just stop, Sherlock. Please." John's hands find Sherlock's shoulders, and he presses just slightly. "You can't strain this groin site, not at all. Lay back, and --"

The nurse has come in alongside, her quickly gloved hand reaching toward the puncture site dressing, and she almost hisses at him, and although it is quietly spoken, it is fierce. "Good lord, be careful." Her tone, her words, her presence, seem to stun the men into silence. "Seriously, let me see," and she pulls up the linens, finds the dressing still very white and she touches carefully around it, keeping as much belly covered as she can. "Good, still soft. Okay, so here's the thing: take it easy. Please don't jeopardise all the work that's already gone into getting you out of here. It's really important that, first of all, don't stress this part of your body. Coughing, sneezing, straining, and that includes trying to sit up, you just can't. Or, for a sneeze, you have to apply some counter-pressure when you do. Because, well, it gets really ugly when they bleed or develop a haematoma or a retroperitoneal bleed, even worse. So work with me here."

John has long removed his hands, as Sherlock has actually relaxed back into the bed and seems to be reluctantly listening.

"If I could sum this up - and trust me, I could fuss at you for any number of things, okay? - to sum this up, just chill out." She gestures with her hands in a calming, easy, lateral plane. "Let us do our jobs, take care of you. And I know you've been through it, and it just ... sucks, pardon my language." Sherlock blinks, looks at her with a little bit of surprise. John stifles a chuckle, thinking of actually apologising for that word as opposed to the many others that he says out of Rosie's earshot. "But at least you're getting another chance. Because let me tell you, most people who have this kind of unlucky stuff happen to them," and John hears her words and whole-heartedly agrees, but wonders - cringes - at the timing, "they don't always have such a good outcome as you." Her words are soft and quite well delivered. "Okay?"

Sherlock's eyes are mostly flat but he nods his head once. And then he takes her to task for something she's just said. "If you plan to fuss at me all day, I swear to you that _I will fuss back_."

Her eyes actually light up and she giggles. "Bring it on, then."

When she returns to the room, it is with a covered cup of water and a small container of apple juice. Handing them to John, she raises her brows as if to ask if this is okay to delegate to him. He nods, smiles, and unwraps the plastic straw. He brings it to Sherlock's lips, the bent straw. He huffs, swipes it out of John's hand, and takes a drink on his own.

++

The evening is mostly progress-worthy. John has sent vague update messages to those who needed one. Mycroft has sent one in return that he is unable to visit tonight but that he should be over tomorrow. John makes tentative plans to go home to try to sleep there again, and he tells Lydia that he should be there before Rosie goes to bed, provided Sherlock's evening continues mostly uneventful. Which it is. The puncture site remains clean, dry, intact, and without signs of bleeding, so eventually, with permission, Sherlock sits up even more. He complains of a sore throat - expected after a few days of a breathing tube - but swallows safely and manages to eat a soft dinner. Well, portions of one anyway. His oxygen levels, though, keep him from getting out of bed. That and his level of fatigue. When he's resting, he is in the mid-nineties. But any activity at all, and he's not only desaturating but breathlessly symptomatic.

"Bed is fine for tonight. Plenty of time to get up tomorrow," the nurse assures him. "I brought your pills in. The clopidogrel, we talked about earlier, for the stent. A couple of paracetamol, for aches." Sherlock nods, definitely agreeable to that. "And I'll be drawing some blood later, check on the heparin dosage. You guys need anything else?"

The hospital is getting quieter, the ICU pace slowing down just a little with less ancillary staff, less visitors. Outside the window of Sherlock's ICU room, it is getting a little darker. John speaks. "No, I think we're good, and I'll be taking off soon." He pulls over the chair, closer to the bed turned so that he is facing Sherlock and not the door, and leans his head back as the nurse leaves the room, pulling the curtain and the door mostly closed behind her.

Sherlock is very quiet, thinking, his body still, his breathing mostly steady and even if still somewhat fast. "Earlier today, the nurse said something about other people with this ... event, the clot ... not having good outcomes."

"Yeah, she did."

"How bad was it, really. Because I have only vague memories." He frowns, and John understands that Sherlock dislikes not knowing every little detail. The critical illness, the amnestic effects of the medications, the missing block of time all had a part in that.

"I'll answer you, of course, but keep in mind that I think you have been defying statistics, beating the odds, since you were little." He settles into the chair again, crosses an ankle over his knee. "It was really touch and go for a bit in the beginning. The clot that went from your leg to your lung, described as massive saddle pulmonary embolism." He speaks slowly and waits to make sure Sherlock is ready to hear more. "A lot of things in reality would have predicted more trouble, the collapse out of the hospital, the changes in your echo that showed some strain on the right side of your heart, the low blood pressure. Needing the breathing tube actually is an ominous sign. But things came together for you. Brought immediately to the hospital. Prompt management." John knows he has been mostly clinical, relating events that, for him, are just that and very technical. But it has been personal too, and he decides to poke at it from that angle. "How much do you remember?" Cautiously, John slides a hand toward Sherlock's, taps lightly with a few fingers, giving the choice to Sherlock. John feels an overwhelming relief when their hands connect, fingers warm, seeking surface area together, joining.

"Not much. Coughing on the tube. Getting glared at by a few idiots." His brow furrows but then he lets loose a small smirk. "Someone told me I should see a bloody physician, to 'get looked at,' and I remember thinking that I was getting close to home. To my physician." John keeps any commentary to himself, this is Sherlock's story. "Vague A&E, maybe. Or it was when they were stabbing me in the leg. What is it with you people and the whole 'little pinch and some burning' phrase? Because it's a stabbing knife wound and being set on fire." His voice drops a little lower. "I was all uncovered, at least part of that time. Everything was cold."

The silence drags on a moment, and John feels obligated to refocus. "You've come a long way since then."

"I don't remember the breathing tube, not really. Not until they were telling me to cough and then it was out. Although I seem to recall listening to music.” For that, John is grateful. He had played some music for him while he was mostly awake and before the breathing tube had been removed. The furrow turns to an outright frown. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday." John hesitates, stops completely. "Yes, I'm fairly certain it's still Wednesday."

"So, what, you got a phone call?"

John takes a settling breath. "Yes. From Mycroft."

"Apologies for that." He doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. John knows what he means. "So, statistics. Odds, you mentioned." He looks at John with some expectancy, a degree of seriousness. "It was bad."

"You want the actual numbers?" John asks. Because they have certainly been circulating in his mind since this all went down, that at some point, he might have had to say goodbye. Sherlock ponders this, nods after a moment of consideration. "Greater than 50% mortality, massive saddle PE when there's cardiovascular collapse."

There is a sharp inhale. A moment later, he asks, "What's my risk now?"

"Why, do you have the sense that something's wrong?" John asks the question softly, casually, but does not want to discount that Sherlock's worry is, at least might be, real, but he shakes his head, waiting for John to answer. "Greatest risk is first two hours after collapse. High in the first twenty-four. Much less by seventy-two. And for you, probably even less because of the quite aggressive early management." John knows he needs to re-center the conversation and go positive. "You've responded very well to everything. The meds, the oxygen, all the times you went to another department for more procedures and monitoring. Treatment. You'll be fine."

He is pensive for another few moments. "I've certainly had my share of close calls. But this ..." He shakes his head. "Before, it was more my choice." At John's snort, thinking of the biggest, lousiest choice that they have certainly resolved now, the bloody roof at Barts, Sherlock inclines his head. "Yes, I know. I didn't say they were specifically easy choices for everyone. But it's always been something I've had a little control over. The brushes with criminals, the run-ins with clients and the like. Voluntarily putting myself in danger. But not this. This is different." His thumb is making small motions over the back of John's hand. "I've no control over this."

"Well, actually there are some things you can control. Is now a bad time to mention that you have smoked your last cigarette ever?"

"I could certainly go for one now."

"Great idea. Oxygen, flammable, lots of linens. We'll make sure to get close to your hair too." He shifts in the chair. "Listen, I know now's not the time, but yeah, Sherlock. Just, don't okay? Make up your mind now. And I suppose travel in the future for you is going to be different too. Once you've ..." He stops, too much, back to the one-day-at-a-time mode. "You know, we can talk about this much later. Focus on the progress. Today's been good. Great, actually. Problem fixed."

"This is nothing like what my coming home was supposed to be like."

"Understatement of the year, there." John settles, and they both take a few moments, each silent and comfortable. Their eyes meet again, hold, the sincerest form of _I'm okay, you're okay, we're okay_ being exchanged.

"You haven't... you haven't changed your mind?" The slowness of his words, the uncertainty in his expression clearly says it all. The expectation of more between them.

John squeezes his fingers, relaxes, but a reminder of where they are, that John is present and not looking to go anywhere. "God no. You?"

"No."

There is an encouraging squeeze, reciprocated, and John exhales again, more deeply, feeling even a little more relief at their mutual disclosure. "It's getting ... I don't really want to but ..."

As John fragments his sentences, Sherlock mutters an impatient sigh.

The sigh motivates John to a complete sentence before he is verbally lambasted for his grammar. "You okay if I take off? I'd like to make it home before Rosie goes to bed, but I can ..."

"No, go. It's fine." He sits up a little straighter though. "Oh, my mobile. Can you see where it is before you leave?"

John considers the rating scale list that's posted at the surgery, where no patient will ever see it, that lists a pain scale complete with pain ratings with an added column for smartphone usage. The more apps, the longer the patient uses it, the less actual pain no matter what they describe. It's kind of brutal but very true and more than one nurse adds this to her verbal summary when prepping the physician to meet the patient along with the chief complaint. So, Sherlock asking for his mobile is a good sign, and so John finds it in the closet, where his belongings have been stashed and crumpled into a plastic bag. He presses a button. "It's here. Deader than a doornail. I'll bring a charger tomorrow."

"I brought a gift for Rosie, too, come to think of it. Should be in there somewhere." John digs a bit deeper, into his overnight bag, finds a parcel, holds it out, and Sherlock nods. "Take it home for her. Just a small --"

"No. You're giving it to her. It'll keep."

"You should go."

John stands, feeling that too-familiar angst at leaving him again. "Have the nurse call me ... I can be back if you ..."

There is another awkward moment of _I don't want to leave_ and _I don't want you to leave_, and then John gives himself a mental shake, the voice in his head whispering, fuck it. He comes closer, presses his lips warmly against Sherlock's, his hand finding his jaw, touching, holding, remembering the tube and the tape and feeling like he just never ever wants to leave. The kiss is unrushed, their exhales felt on the others skin, John's hand against Sherlock's chin, the side of his face, their noses close but not in the way. A little more suction, the parting of warm lips, the hint and the promise of more, and then very slowly, John pulls back.

"I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock's fingers rise to his face, touching his lips, where John's have just vacated. He gives a small smile which fades, of resignation. He nods.

++

He enjoys the evening with Rosie, actually arriving in time to finish up her bath, snuggles with her on the couch, reading and soaking in her sweetness and her usual normalcy. Lydia goes out for a walk, to stretch her legs and pick up some shopping, she says, but John knows it is to give them some privacy, some time together without anyone else there. He hands her some money but she declines it, commenting that she's keeping a log and it'll be easier all in one shot. Rosie finishes a snack and some juice, and it is all just so refreshingly routine that John is glad he came back, even though so much of him wanted to be at the hospital. A little later than usual, he tucks Rosie in, procures another few changes of clothes for himself and whatever he needs from their shared room, and then returns to find that Lydia has returned, and he sits to chat with her. Conversation is shallow and superficial, although enjoyable, until he realises that he is exhausted. It hits him quickly.

"I'm turning in then. A shower, and then a few hours of sleep."

"Looks like you could use more than a few, if you don't mind my saying so." Lydia smiles. "Your daughter is doing well. Minimal meltdowns for her age, all very quickly resolved. Normal stuff. I'm having a good time with her." Though John has no way of knowing for sure, he doubts she would have said that if it weren't true, and it is touching.

"It's largely due to you. I can't even begin to say how much I appreciate --" He hears the tremble in his voice, clears his throat, finishes with "-- all of this." Tipping his head in her direction and hearing her tactful, gentle acknowledgement, he gathers his things, showers, and lays in bed for a little while acutely aware of his mobile, the flat, the desire that, despite his fatigue, he is looking forward to being back at the hospital.

++

He is not so sure he wants to be back at the hospital as he nears Sherlock's room, comes within earshot.

Sherlock is giving the nurse a very hard time, and John stops to listen to the nurse hold her own, plead her case, and offer calm, logical explanations. All of these fall on mostly deaf ears and Sherlock is just having an impossible time with all of it. It very quickly includes his plan of care, mobility, medication instructions, oxygen therapies, and other various explanations. She uses words like 'the doctor ordered these, and we've explained it' and John hears the interruption, Sherlock's tone of voice reply with words like 'ridiculous' and a moment later some muttering about being better off at home. He turns personally on the nurse and the phrase 'you're suffering with imposter syndrome and probably shouldn't be here at all.'

He gathers his mental battle gear, the knowledge that today is going to be more exhausting than yesterday, and strides into the room. "Morning sunshine." Both the nurse and Sherlock draw up short at his greeting. The nurse's face is flushed but not cringing at all, for which John is glad, and Sherlock's is smug, although John gets the impression that the nurse is about to change the tides of the battle. "Glad to hear you're being so reasonable, compliant, and good natured about all of this." John sets down the backpack he's brought on the counter across from Sherlock's bed, loaded with a few things that are now going to be used as motivation, reward, and ammunition if necessary, turns to the nurse with a pasted on smile with undertones of apology. "Can you give us a moment please?"

Her words come across neutral, "Of course." There is a bit of relief in the nurse's eyes and a silent communication, a warning, a caution, a desire to make sure John knows Sherlock is particularly oppositional.

John nods, understanding, assuring her that he heard enough and _knows_, and pivots on his heel to watch the nurse pick up the medications that apparently Sherlock was uninterested in taking (just yet) and leaving the room. Without speaking any further, John closes the door fully, as well as the curtain behind her.

"You brought my mobile charger? Great, I'll take that now."

"In a moment." John takes in a very quick but fairly thorough look about the room, at Sherlock. The cardiac monitor continues to read out fairly normal vital signs, oxygen level and respiratory rates probably a bit low and a bit high respectively, but stable for the moment. The heparin IV pump is the only one left even remotely close to the bed, infusing at the same rate it's been at, which means that his blood levels are therpeutic. The urinary drainage bag that had been in place for those more unstable days is absent. The urinal bottle is clipped to the siderail. There is a cup of water, bent straw protruding, sitting there, full. The foot pumps are off and Sherlock's feet are encased in hospital slippers with grippy soles, but the chair next to the bed covered by a crisp unwrinkled sheet has clearly not been sat upon yet. "How's your morning been so far?"

"Don't patronise me."

"You do understand how this game is actually played, don't you?"

"I have mastered the game. Which you should already know."

"Seems to me you haven't." John slides the folding chair into place at Sherlock's side. "How are you feeling, really? I do want an answer to that."

There is a stubborn set to Sherlock's face. "I don't need to be here."

"Yes you do. Next?" When Sherlock looks away and refuses to answer, John pats at his leg. "I'm on your side here, remember? I'll help you with everything, you know that."

"Then take me home."

"You're not ready yet." His words are calm, matter of fact, and he moves quickly back to his question. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I can't take a deep enough breath to feel satisfied." Although John wants to respond immediately, explain those symptoms and why he's having them, he keeps quiet. "I fall asleep and a few minutes later wake up startled, like I can't catch my breath. Only to do it again. All night." Wisely again, John holds his tongue. "I hate this," hisses Sherlock. _"Hate."_

"I know you do." He waits. "Will you listen to some advice?"

"Listen, sure." There is enough of a smirk, just barely visible on the one corner of his mouth that John realises his mistake.

"Heed?"

"I reserve the right not to."

"Close enough." He sacrifices that battle for the sake of the war. John doesn't want to rush this, knowing that eventually Sherlock will tune him out. "So compliance points with the nurses. You need them _much more_ than they need you." He crosses an ankle over his knee. "They will all take care of you. They're doing all the right things, therapy, meds, mobility, trying to help you. It's recovery. Hands down. Safely. But how it progresses is largely up to you. They give the doctor a report, especially here in the ICU. They talk to each other. They will eventually give report to a nurse outside of the ICU. And do you have any idea what they might be inclined to say first, if you keep this up?" Sherlock of course doesn't answer the rhetorical question. "Because I guarantee it will start with good luck, he's a pain in the arse, everything is a battle, and good riddance." He leans again. "In the army, report would have started with arrogant as fuck."

"The one I have today, Sheila, was deployed for two years."

"And you still choose to mess with her? Not exactly your best genius move. Good luck with that then." He thinks he has said enough, but ends with, "A little cooperation goes a very long way."

Sherlock silently grits his teeth, fusses with the sheet and blanket that rest over his stomach, and continues to say nothing.

John wonders if the whole day is going to be hard, suspects that it might be. He tries to smile, lays his hand briefly down on top of Sherlock's. "I'm going to go for a bit of a walk."

He opens the curtain, the door, steps into the hallway. Sherlock's nurse, Sheila, catches his eye, and John just holds his gaze steady for a few moments. "All yours," is all he says, and Sheila looks back into the room. Her smile, her demeanor, grateful, and she picks up Sherlock's meds that are still in the cup from the computer workstation as she enters.

When John returns, Sherlock is a little subdued, but there has been progress in his absence. There is an empty med cup on the counter and he is sitting in the chair by the bed. His oxygen level is low and the flow rate has been turned up again, but he looks like he's doing all right. The urinal bottle has been moved, rinsed, and now sits off to the side, where he can reach it if he needs. Sheila is organising the room a bit, and grins as John enters.

"So, good morning." Her nod also says a heartfelt thank you. "Again, I suppose. Doing good today. Better now."

"Glad to hear."

"Probably getting transfer orders out of the ICU later on today, once we get his oxygen level up and the liters down under six." John gaze flicks again to the flowmeter, set at eight. "What questions do you have for me?" She asks John but gestures to Sherlock as well. When both are silent at first, she makes sure the call bell is close by, lets them know that intensivist rounds are starting shortly and they are both welcome and expected to participate if they'd like.

"Great," John says, then his eyes grow a little kinder. "Actually, then, what are the chances, when you get a moment," and he crosses to the backpack on the counter, "that we could please get some hot water?" From within the bag, he pulls out two ceramic mugs and two tea bags. Sherlock's favourite blend, an earl grey.

"We have a hot water tap. No problem." She cocks her head at the mugs. "You brought your own?"

"Tea tastes terrible in plastic or disposable cups," John explains, recalling all the previous times when there had been no choice. "And he's a bit of a connoisseur." Bobbing her head as she understands and agrees, moments later, she disappears. 

Sherlock glances over, and there is a hunger in his eyes as he takes in what John brought. "She forgot the cups."

"No, she can't take them into their kitchen. Cleanliness and cross-contamination and such." Sherlock nods once, and John continues. "You order breakfast yet?" When he shakes his head no, John gives a tolerant smile in his direction. "I know you're not hungry, but ..."

"I know, cooperation."

Sheila returns with a large steaming styrofoam cup, hands it off to John, and they discuss the logistics of breakfast, which John orders for him although they both wait for Sherlock to nod his final approval. John divides the water, places the tea bags, sets them on the overbed table in front of Sherlock's chair. He sits across from him and tries to enjoy the camaraderie. If nothing else, they do both enjoy the tea. The similarity to what they usually prefer, though, there in Baker Street, dressing gowns instead of patient gown, real slippers instead of hospital socks, freedom instead of being somewhat confined, is limited. Eventually, Sherlock finishes about half of his cup, pushes it away, casts a disappointed look at it.

"Thanks for the effort, but ..."

John says nothing, but inwardly, he agrees. Tea tastes better at home.

++

Intensivist rounds are led by Dr. Jack Benton and are quite thorough. John hears first hand what the team - pharmacy, physician, nursing, therapy, case management, and a few students - discusses. Dr. Benton summarises the long and complicated hospital course. Labs (therapeutic), tissue perfusion (extremities, good; lungs, still reduced), activity (still intolerant but out of bed), medications (blood thinners as noted, with aspirin to be added tomorrow while the heparin continues), oxygen needs (moderate, with incentive spirometry added), assessment and procedures (findings are normal and no further testing today), appetite (fair), catheter removal (has urinated, no issues), skin concerns (procedural punctures all intact), and John does actually hold his breath when the final category is brought up: disposition. It is hospital speak for discharge.

Sherlock raises his head with interest at that as well.

Jack nods, and sees Sherlock's attentiveness. "Conservative therapy, best evidence, is starting direct oral anticoags while the heparin infusion continues. Best outcomes indicate five days."

Sherlock blinks once, glances at the white board in the room for the date. "This is day four."

Jack's smile is sympathetic. "Let me rephrase, five days from the start of the oral meds."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "That's preposterous," Sherlock snarls, his speech somewhat slow and surprised. "Unacceptable."

Jack leaves the group in the doorway, comes to stand close to Sherlock's bed, his manner and his voice calm and compassionate. "Listen, your PE was _massive_. For you to have done this well is ... astonishing, actually. I'm just being honest. The clot burden was - and to some degree, still is - impressive. And the complications and the risks are still real. We are not jeoparidising your health to be convenient. We're going to move you out of ICU today, into a regular room. We'll try to wean down the oxygen."

"So is this day one or day two?"

The pharmacist confirms, "Clopidogrel started yesterday."

"This is day two."

"I live with a physician, I'm sure we can --" Sherlock's voice holds a tinge of desperation, and John positively hates hearing it. John takes hold of Sherlock's hand, squeezes once, and Sherlock begrudgingly stops speaking. "No," he finally says, a little bit question, and more than that, his expression of dissatisfaction.

Dr. Benton tries to smile, but there is a seriousness that is impossible to miss, as he says, "This is not up to you."

John tries to gentle his words as much as possible, and gives a tentative smile. "We'll make the best of it, okay? One day at a time."

"In the meantime, the plan is the plan. Wean the oxygen. Out of ICU later." Dr. Benton taps the incentive spirometre. "This will help. Gently, every hour if you can."

Sherlock mostly stops speaking. He uses the respiratory device now and again, half-heartedly, but his effort is minimal. John plugs in his mobile, sets it aside to charge, but even that doesn't seem to interest him all that much. He refuses lunch, but it a quiet refusal. John sits across from him, seeing the weaning of the oxygen not really getting anywhere, and it occurs to him that he almost prefers the argumentative, sassy refusals more than this reclusive, withdrawn version.

John reaches into his arsenal, his toolbox of weapons, and texts Mycroft.

**Interested in sparking some life into your brother? Could benefit perhaps from a snobby sibling visit.**

There is a brief ellipsis. **Unless it is a dire emergency to come earlier, I will swing by after supper.**

**Ok.**

John reconsiders telling Mycroft that this might be an emergency, that it is kind of a huge deal, decides that there are other avenues to pursue. A few text messages are swapped with Greg, who has similar commitments throughout the day. He considers Molly, sends off a text, and she offers to come by but not until after work as well, so John realises that he is on his own for the short term.

"How about a shave?" Sherlock side-eyes a glare at him. "You're looking a little scruffy." No response. "With the heparin, and the rest of the blood thinners you're on, a blade is probably not a good idea, but I threw your electric razor in the pack with me."

"No." They lock eyes enough for Sherlock to see John sigh, a little frustrated. "No_ thanks,_" he adds.

"Look, I know this isn't what --"

"Get my nurse." Rather than question him as to why, he stands, spreads his arms as if asking the question with the gesture. Sherlock's words are clipped. "I'm tired. I'm getting back in bed. And you're leaving."

His words trigger a small cough, then a larger one. He inhales slowly, leaning forward and reaching for a kleenex. Hearing some rattling, some deeper sounding phlegm as he coughs again, John steps forward, his hand coming behind Sherlock's back. He can feel the vibrato of his chest, airways trying to clear themselves, and with that, Sherlock takes a large inhale, spits into the kleenex. John searches Sherlock's face, whose eyes are watering with the effort, and then happens to glance down at the paper tissue in his hand. Sherlock has coughed up a fairly good-sized handful - tissue-full - of blood clot. Sherlock notices John's attention immediately and a small sound comes from his throat.

"It's okay," John breathes, pulls at Sherlock's hand, angling the bloody paper in his hand so that, without actually touching it, he can get a better look. The blood is red but not bright, mixed with phlegm, thick but not a significant clot. "Older, probably from the breathing tube, the ventilator."

Sherlock's eyes are much less irritated and are actually full of fear. John takes a familiar tour of Sherlock's heart monitor, his skin colour. Stable for being anxious, and his skin is pink. His oxygen level is actually a little higher.

"It's okay, really," John says again. "Feel like there's more down there?"

There is some movement at the door again, and Sherlock's nurse pokes her head in. "Thought I heard some ... oh." She dons a glove, takes the tissue from Sherlock, gives it the same once-over that John has done. "Not uncommon, actually. Maybe it was kind of plugging up in there."

"Blood's never good," Sherlock says.

"No, not necessarily. Getting rid of that ... " John aims for as reassuring as he can be, " ... is probably a very good thing. It's not fresh, not bright red."

"No clots." The nurse agrees. Her stethoscope is removed from her pocket, and she listens carefully to Sherlock's chest, front and back. "I think you sound fairly clear. Little rattley down here," she indicates Sherlock's right posterior lung field. "Sometimes it takes some getting used to, the blood thinners. Long as that's the only time, I'm sure everything is fine. It's all understandable. If it happens again, real hemoptysis, he might want the heparin drip shut off for a little while, an hour or two just to make sure there's nothing going on." She puts her hand on her hip as she studies the monitor, the oxygen level, the flowmeter. "The oxygen's already flowing through some sterile water, for humidity. You're level's okay, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Benton's across the hall, I'll mention it." She seems quite confident, and John agrees with the plan. "For now, just let me know if it happens again, okay?"

They pass a little bit of time discussing the visit from the interventional cardiologist, that John hadn't been present for, and that there was nothing further that was going to require their attention. Sherlock's oxygen level stays high, but he looks a bit more exhausted sitting out of bed. On a routine check in with Sheila, John mentions that he was probably going to step out for a little walk. "And I think he was looking to get back in bed when you have a moment."

++

The afternoon passes, no further coughing, no blood of any kind, and by lunchtime, Sherlock's oxygen demands lessen. John can see that he is a little fearful of using the incentive spirometre, but assures him that there is no possible way that the remaining clot in the lung can be remotely affected by that breathing exercise. Things seem to be progressing, and Dr. Benton comes back to the room to discuss the plans for being downgraded. By the middle of the afternoon, transfer orders are written for out of the ICU, and the nurse comes back to let them know that there isn't a bed yet, that sometimes it doesn't happen until the following day depending on hospital census. John wonders at the emotional toll of either option. He and Sherlock are both very comfortable with the staff and the level of attention here in the ICU, so staying had its merits. Escaping the critical environment, though, means that Sherlock is getting better and no longer needs the close monitoring. Deep down, while John would like to stay, he hopes for a room reassignment.

Sherlock gets in and out of bed with minimal assistance from John a few times, though he is tethered by his IV and the heart monitor. Although he is quiet, he is less aggravated. Molly and Greg arrive fairly close together, chat briefly, and don't stay long. Sherlock is resting in the bed, perhaps is almost asleep, when a text arrives that John finds a bit gripping. It is from Lydia.

**Everything is ok, wanted to let you know Rosie tripped, bloodied her eyebrow a bit. Calmer now but I think she might feel better with you? Give me a ring if you need more info.**

He steps out to the waiting room, gets the full story, and truly it sounds as though there wasn't much more to it, but that Rosie just seems a little unsettled, and Lydia wanted to make sure that John was full aware, give him the option to come home if he is able.

He is able, and he does want to. 

"Sherlock," he murmurs once, then louder, tapping just slightly on his arm. "Hey, gonna run home for a bit. Rosie's fallen, needs me there."

"I'll go with you." John makes a face. "I'll come back with you too. Promise." John tilts his head, narrows an eye, knowing that to be a lie. "Well, maybe." He tries another tack. "Rosie needs me, I'll cheer her up."

"I'll see you soon."

++

Rosie turns out to be overtired and overstimulated, the little mishap with her face just what put her over the edge. She is still nestled in Lydia's arms when John finds them upstairs, in the rocking chair in her room, her little breaths still of the gulping, I've been upset type. John trades places with Lydia, who brings him a new piece of ice cube in a paper towel, and a sippy cup. He rocks, talks softly to her, and within a few minutes she has had a drink and fallen asleep. He knows he should put her down in her cot but relishes and enjoys the moments, her snuggly hug, her security against his shoulder, the fact that she is safe in his arms.

Finally, he does press a kiss against her temple and tuck her in her cot before ambling down the stairs.

"She's exhausted," John mutters. "Thanks so much for calling me."

"She misses you, for sure, especially when she's otherwise stressed. I could've handled this, and she was settling down of course, but ... well, I just wanted you to know."

"Thanks, no really. Sherlock was sleeping, or sort of, and we're just waiting for a bed out of the ICU now."

"Progress, finally."

"We've a long few days ahead." John at least knows the theme is going to be all focused on getting out of the hospital as early as possible, damn the consequences.

"Perhaps tomorrow would be a good day for us to visit, then, in a regular room."

"If Rosie's up for it, that'd be fantastic." John opens the refrigerator, finds it well stocked, helps himself to a few things. "I'll try to get back before bedtime tonight?"

"You know where we'll be."

++

He makes the familiar trek to the hospital, strides in again, up to the ICU.

"Oh good, you're just in time, we were getting ready to call you." The nurse meets him at the door, and at John's somewhat alarmed expression, clarifies, "He's fine. They've assigned us a room. A very nice room, one of the extra big ones, a private VIP room. Not sure about the VIP status, but as soon as they assigned it, I called report before they change their minds." John glances inside the room, where Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed. A wheelchair is in front of him.

"Like an invalid, John." He is annoyed at the chair and everything else, and when the sheet catches on his hand as he gestures at the equipment, he shrugs at it with anger. "Can't I just walk to the new room?"

"With or without falling over?" John says with a chuckle, which earns him yet another death stare. "Seriously. You don't have the stamina. Though I appreciate your determination."

"I don't want to sit in that."

"Personally, I'm glad you're well enough to get into it and not need to be transported in the bed."

Sherlock's mind is quick, and he changes gears - and arguments. "I already ordered dinner, not that it will be worth it, but it's coming to this room."

John tries to decide which of all the things Sherlock is liable to fuss about is actually worth responding to. He wants to pass on this one. "You never eat anyway." John watches the nurse and the tech switch over the oxygen, the IV pump, and then slide slippers onto Sherlock's bony feet. "I think they're waiting on _you_ now," John comments as everything is actually ready for Sherlock to move to the wheelchair.

"John can take me to the new room by himself."

"Absolutely not," John mutters almost immediately. "You'll be threatening my person and demanding that I take you home. Or give me the slip." They fold a blanket over Sherlock's legs, ignoring his growling about looking like an invalid. They help him put his feet on the footrests, and there is a moment where all of them, all four of the people in the room, can feel a bit of a tingle in the air. "Not gonna lie, it's going to feel good to get away from here," John says quietly.

"Not good enough." Sherlock is laser focused. "Home."

The nurse shakes her head, her chuckle full of mirth. "You have no idea how lucky you actually are."

"Oh, yes, silly me. Lucky, lucky me. Collapsed, clot in the lung, clot in the arm, bloody breathing tube, bloody hole in the heart, all of you and your control issues, these ridiculous medications, imprisoned --"

"Oh just stop it," the nurse, Sheila, says, but she is a little playful in the delivery. "We usually transfer people with your particular situation down to the morgue, so just ..." her words trail off, and she realises that she's perhaps coming off a little harsh. "I'm not saying it's easy or that, wow, wasn't this a great time. But you know, not everyone gets better here. So yes, lucky." Sherlock is looking a bit chastised, and the nurse gives him a hug. "I'll miss you. Both of you."

"You're not coming?" John asks. "I mean, just to deliver him?"

"Getting a train wreck across the hall. You'll go up with Ellie and Jenn. Still on a heart monitor of course. Not much else is actually going to change." She unclips the hard wire heart monitor, connects it to the transport telemetry pack. "Better view. Eh," and she giggles, makes a 'so-so' gesture, "I mean, you have to manage without me, but the nurses there are great, much nicer digs."

John appreciates her send-off, the wisdom of helping him - helping them - make the transition, and he speaks what they are all thinking: "And a step closer to home."

++

The new room is a bit anticlimactic, actually. It is fairly large, a recliner and oversized couch against the far wall. The TV is big, there is an actual bathroom and shower. Sherlock's dinner finds him of course, but he only picks at it. The new nurse is sparkly and young but either baseline feisty herself or has been appropriately warned. "Good to meet you," she says on his arrival. "No funny business."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock replies, laying it on thick with fake alliance and intent to behave. "So you have my discharge paperwork all ready to go, I understand?"

"I am actually working again on what will be your day five, and yes, I'll be glad to go through it with you then." John offers this new nurse a mental high-five.

"Good thing this is day three."

"Two."

Sherlock raises one eyebrow at her. "You definitely should not get another cat."

At that, she does actually splutter.

"Oh please, your scrub top has a cat pattern on it, you're wearing cat socks. Some cat scratches on your arms, clearly made by two different cats, but you're thinking of rescuing another one." He glances at her pocket, where there is a hand-made flyer, a save the kitty, call for more info variety. "Don't. Two is enough with your long workdays and your going back to school."

"How --"

"Your stethoscope. Not the usual nurse grade one, which is fine, by the way. This one you're wearing, cardiology afficionado only, someone with extreme dedication to the craft ..."

John can't stop the chuckle, and he tunes them out as Sherlock continues to be brilliant a little bit concerningly charming, while moving Sherlock's belongings, getting them unpacked, emptying the wheelchair of everything but the patient.

He finally settles into bed, the environment initially is a little frightening given that there is no bedside monitor to watch. John finds that he can tell just as much by studying Sherlock, his colour, his skin, his work of breathing, and by the time he is ready to go home, Sherlock is worn out too.

++

The next morning, John is chuckling over something Lydia and Rosie are doing, a conversation of sorts made of grunts, sounds, gestures, and giggles. They banter back and forth, taking turns, and he is reminded a little bit of Chewbacca, BB8, and the other Star Wars droids (all of which, he realises that he can name, much to Sherlock's eye-rolling chagrin). The sounds his daughter makes are similar to the expressive noises made by the non-verbal characters of that series. He thinks briefly that this is cute enough to video, he'll want to remember it. Lydia makes an unexpected noise along with a very silly face, and Rosie's shrieking and heart-warming delight is impossibly contagious - they all share a few moments of laughter. There is a nostalgic moment in which John wishes not for the first time, that Sherlock was home to see it, he laments that he is missing out, but he knows that time is counting down. Hopefully. Lydia makes another face, hands Rosie a hat to play with, to put on, pull down, take off, and John finishes his tea. His entertainment is interrupted by his mobile.

_Ringing._

As if it could be anything else, which it never is, it is the hospital. With an update and a request about Sherlock.

In subtext, it was very likely to be: please come at your earliest convenience, he's driving us nutters.

++

John enters the hospital before visiting hours (again), passes the security desk, waves a hand in greeting at the now-familiar morning shift officer, and takes the shortest path through the lobby to the lift and down the hallway on the acute care unit, and strides into Sherlock's room. He presses open the door fully, and Sherlock turns at the noise. He is reclining in the chair by the window, jaw set with irritation, oxygen still resting under his nose and coiling around his ears. He is watching the world outside the windows, life going on without him. And he is seething, yearning to be ... anywhere else but in this hospital room. The IV pump he is connected to is still infusing, the bag of heparin on the pole full, likely newly hung. John wonders if it is the thought of an entire, new bag being brought in that set him off this time.

"I'm signing out today John. I'm done here."

John pastes on a smile. Into battle in under three seconds. "Except for the oxygen and the IV meds you're still on, of course." Dr. Nguyen had spoken to them about recommendations for treatment of massive pulmonary embolism, as well as the medical management for the revascularisation procedure he'd had done. She had reviewed the PE Severity Index with them and informed them both about how unusual this combination of conditions was and that there was somewhat limited data. The recommendations, though, were sound. Based on all of that, they had made the decision for some fairly conservative therapy, intravenous heparin for a number of days and eventual discharge on a direct oral anticoagulation medication. They'd chosen, on her recommendation as well as the vascular surgeon, on the safest regimen going forward. Aspirin therapy, the low-dose strength, was given to him starting today.

"You can manage both at home."

"This is already day three of five. Another forty-eight hours, Sherlock. Any sooner than that is ... ill-advised." Even from across the room, John sees that Sherlock's annoyance is escalating and goes for logic, safety, and will pull out sentiment if needed. "It's brain protective, mate. Stroke prevention. You can't mess with that and there's very little argument."

"I hate you."

John ignores that for the moment. "And remember, we want to try to minimise the possibility of what Kathy, you know, Dr. Nguyen, said about chronic thromboembolic pulmonary hypertension. The more vigilant we are in preventing it from expanding, and actually, the smaller we can let that clot get, and the quickest means to do it, the lesser the chance you'll develop it." Based on her suggestion, John has read a bit about the typical post-discharge progression of patients with massive PE, that many of them (some of the articles actually cited eighty percent) had residual shortness of breath over time. John of course will not share this with Sherlock other than by vague protective strategies to minimise it.

"I really hate you."

"Okay, I'm all right with that at this particular point in time. And I understand. Can you say it again, so I can set my incoming text tone for that?" John pulls out his mobile, an irritated eyebrow cocked back at him, and waits. Sherlock's jaw clenches and he pointedly turns his face away from John, his attitude and body language prickly. There's very little going to be gained in catering to him, John knows, so he continues, "The au pair, Lydia, is bringing Rosie by at lunchtime, to have lunch with us. Rosie's been missing you."

"Let's go home instead."

"And Lydia wants to meet you, having heard so much about you."

"Home."

"I think you know why --"

"Oh shut it, John. I really don't want company."

"I'm glad to --"

"Not even Rosie."

"Well, suck it up, you huge grump, because she needs to see you."

"Just stop."

"You can give her the gift you brought." It is still tucked in his bag, in the closet.

There is a bit of movement at the doorway and a technician comes in with a portable blood pressure machine, and there is stony silence from Sherlock despite her attempts to engage him. After finding his temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate normal, she holds out the pulse oximeter clip, which he stares at for a quick moment, then blatantly ignores.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"It doesn't hurt, it's just that we check this every four --"

"I said no."

The tech looks helplessly over at John, who makes sure his sighing exhale is not too audible. _"Sherlock."_

The glaring death ray he pins on John is met with a small chuckle in spite of the fact that John knows it is unhelpful. If he didn't think it would get him slugged, he would like to put Sherlock in a playfully loose chokehold and ruffle his curls just to rile him up a little more.

"Just stop it." John crosses to Sherlock's bedside, takes Sherlock's index finger firmly and places the still offered oximeter probe on it. "We'll never know about weaning the damned oxygen if you don't bloody cooperate."

All of them watch the readout settle on ninety-one. Dr. Nguyen had advised them that greater than ninety was acceptable. And that they would wean for numbers greater than ninety-three or so at rest.

"Pffft," Sherlock makes a puff of his own, places one hand over his face, and leans his head back against the back of the chair, his eyes drifting closed.

John slides the clip off, hands it back to the technician, who gives him a helpless shrug of an apologetic smile. As she leaves, John takes a step closer to the head of the bed to check the oxygen flowmeter. Still set at four liters, which completely explains Sherlock's discouragement.

"We can order that for home if we need. It's the IV that's --" The case management worker yesterday had looked into it, but everyone is still hopeful that by the time the heparin infusion is going to be discontinued that Sherlock won't need it at all.

"I know. Just ... shut up." There is less energy in his voice, less caring, less ... life. While John watches, Sherlock slides his hand up onto his forehead, makes a face of disgust, and lets his arms fall to his side. "And just ... go away."

It only takes John a moment to realise at least one possibility as to why he'd made the face, the mild grimace, and he has an idea. "I'll give you a moment, then. Back in a tick."

++

When he returns fifteen minutes or so later, it is with two cups of tea, cautious but definite permission from Sherlock's nurse, an armful of linens, an oxygen tubing extension, a plastic sleeve, some tape, extra cardiac monitor electrodes, several alcohol pads, and an IV flush syringe.

"No." He barely looks to see the supplies and John is absolutely certain that Sherlock has no idea what he will shortly be offering him.

"Okay, then, I'll just go find some other patient's hair to shampoo." And John calls his bluff by turning, heading toward the door, and actually makes it into the hallway corridor before hearing Sherlock's voice.

"Wait." John takes one slow step toward the door, and another. _"Wait!"_

++

John doesn't expect that getting Sherlock in and out of the shower is going to be smooth; neither does he expect Sherlock to cooperate much.

He is not disappointed on either point. It is neither smooth nor is Sherlock the least bit cooperative.

Sherlock balks at the shower bench, claiming he can stand. John explains that, for his safety he'll need to stay seated so he doesn't slip, given that he's very weak. He then removes his oxygen and jerks his head out of the way when John tries to replace it. After John manages to win that battle, Sherlock tries to disconnect his own IV infusion of heparin. "Does everything, absolutely everything need to be a battle with you, today?" John stands with his hands on his hips while Sherlock stands, profoundly annoyed, in the bathroom. The IV pump is in the bathroom with them, and the long oxygen tubing snakes across the floor, still connected and flowing. "The IV is the last thing we're disconnecting, to keep the interruption in the medication as brief as possible."

"Ridiculous."

"Then we're not doing this at all. I'm not risking your health more than we already are."

"You're paranoid."

"I've spent the better part of a week worrying that you weren't going to survive, let alone wake up intact neurologically. So count your bloody blessings. This is not something that usually gets done for anyone, and you should be at least somewhat appreciative." The nurse had initially been reluctant to interrupt the infusion, until John reminded her that the infusion was stopped prior to the blood being drawn, since they can only use one arm. He assures her that he will keep the interruption under ten minutes. He is actually thinking Sherlock only has enough energy for five.

Sherlock blinks, looks away, keeps his mouth shut.

The shower is an oversized, handicapped accessible stall with a handheld shower detachment head at the top. John adjusts the water to comfortably warm and cues Sherlock through getting out of the ugly patient gown (though he suggests draping it across his lap after he's seated on the bench) and removes the heart monitor. He slides the plastic sleeve up over his arm, tapes the one end, then disconnects the heparin, flushing the site, capping the tubing, and securing the other end of the sleeve with more tape. Then, with the rest of the shower supplies already in reach, he takes down the shower wand and starts soaking his scalp, using his other hand to tip Sherlock's chin up. He hands Sherlock the bottle of hospital-grade shampoo, an offer to let him take care of it.

He gets about twenty seconds into trying to rub the shampoo into a lather before lowering his shoulders in exhausted defeat. John doesn't make him ask, and speaks before Sherlock can confess that he is unable. "I'll get it."

Efficiently, John lathers while leaning in best he can, though he is getting himself fairly well soaked too. There are a few times Sherlock moans his pleasure at the scalp massage, and the thrumming that reverberates through John's chest is thrilling, actually. Something he thinks he will like to repeat in the future perhaps. He rinses, then quickly lathers a flannel, rubs the soap across Sherlock's skin, all that isn't covered by the drenched gown and the part he's sitting on. Rinsing again, he re-lathers the flannel. "You do the rest. Be quick though. I'm not interested in getting any more wet than I already am."

Pointedly, John looks away as Sherlock obediently runs the soap over the rest of him, standing briefly and then sitting back down with an exhausted thud. John shuts off the water as soon as it is no longer needed and begins wrapping Sherlock in several bath blankets. A few minutes later, and he is dry enough to exit the stall. The first thing John tackles is the IV, unwrapping the site and aseptically reconnecting and restarting the IV infusion. He removes the oxygen cannula just long enough to dry it off and Sherlock's face and ears where it rests, then reapplying it. By the time John finishes using every towel he brought into the room and helping Sherlock into a fresh patient gown, there is an enormous pile of wet linens, a puddle on the floor, and his own sleeves and shirt front are relatively drenched.

The higher energy fussing is gone, and John turns up the temperature in the room and manages to tuck an extremely exhausted patient into the bed. He barely moves as John adjusts the bed height, blankets, connecting the monitor and other equipment again, and tucking the final dry towel over Sherlock's pillow to catch the remaining moisture out of his hair. One of the techs comes in to check on them, and she has brought another warmed blanket. Sherlock makes that faint rumble in his chest again, the one of satisfaction, a purr of contentment.

John is feeling fairly satisfied himself, and he enjoys his now-cooled somewhat mediocre tea along with his now-drying shirt as Sherlock slumbers a few feet away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> City refers to the university that is now part of the University of London. Squint at the details about Greg's opportunity there please.
> 
> ++
> 
> As we've already mentioned, patients who are recovering can get extremely irritable as they start to feel better. They may be slightly more cooperative for the staff and really let their family members have the full brunt of the frustration.
> 
> ++
> 
> Transferring out of the ICU is scary for a lot of people. I minimised the angst in this piece, but often patients are frightened that they'll get overlooked, families are frightened to go home, and sometimes the nurses worry that the level of care is perhaps less than the patients may still need. We're all okay here, though. Sometimes, getting out of ICU feels absolutely amazing though, and it's good, as John does here, to focus on the positive.
> 
> ++
> 
> A quick note about non-hospital employees playing with IV pumps, even highly trained, competent, and proficient ones like John, yeah... just don't.
> 
> ++
> 
> This chapter ended up long - and I had every intention of getting them home to Baker Street by the end. And then ... a little plot happened and the chapter count went up again. As usual, if something isn't clear, please let me know. I edited this chapter perhaps more than I should have. 
> 
> And don't worry, John's shirt dried just fine. And it was _totally worth it!_ I can totally see that Sherlock's inability to actually wash his hair would have been very dissatisfying.


	13. I Want to Go Home

A brain's complicated circuity, from sensory afferent and motor efferent neurons to the pleasure pathways, is still not completely understood. The faint buzz, the floating, pleasurable sensation, the euphoria resulting from various experiences or substances does something from almost first exposure to it - it craves more, it takes over, the brain chemistry is changed, rewired, affirmed. It is powerfully motivated by reward chemicals, the hippocampus and amygdala remember these and are not satisfied without more pleasure, more exposure, more neurotransmitters. Repeated exposures make the connection, the pathway, even stronger. It is similar to the innate drive of a person for food, water, sex, protection from elements - the basic needs. Caffeine, alcohol, nicotine are all prime examples of things that can cause increases in dopamine, bringing about milder symptoms. Some scientists and nutritionists include sugar, salt, and fat to this. Cannabis, cocaine, methamphetamine, opioids take the severe end of the scale. The more exposures, the more the brain wants. And sometimes, the more it takes to achieve it. The chemicals are moderately understood - dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin, endorphins, GABA - but they are powerful and difficult to resist.

Even when a person previously addicted has detoxed and cleaned up, been sober even for a number of _years,_ it doesn't take more than one single slip, one trigger, to reactivate all of those powerful sleeping circuits, the drive, the call of the wild. The affinity of a brain on drugs - the brain not only remembers,_ it never forgets._

They are in a small conference room, where staff will come shortly to complete the intake process, at the exclusive rehabilitation centre. It is not the first time but the visit is quite different from admissions of long ago. The first time, the client was in his twenties. This time, his mid thirties. Old enough to know better. Young enough to repeat an unlearned mistake of his youth.

"Don't leave me here," the unshaven addict says from his knees, where he has fallen, where towering over him is his well dressed, cross-armed brother.

"It's for your own good." _I must be the strong one_, he thinks.

"I can beat this." He leans his head down, defeated, knowing that he will not be winning this. Not this time. Not again.

"You need help."

"Please."

"I am helping you. Surely, someday you will understand. When you have a reason to be clean, to stay clean." The brother sighs, tightens the screws. "Someday, maybe you will meet someone who isn't interested in an addict. Have you already met, perhaps? Is there a child to consider?" There is a huff. "Need I say more?"

"Don't say his name." The snarl is quiet with a brokenness behind it.

"I don't have to now, do I?"

"I don't need this."

"Trust me, brother mine."

"I want to go home." His words come hard and are far more emotional than he would have liked. More emotion than he ever showed anyone. But the man on his knees needn't have bothered. And needn't have worried. He is speaking to an empty room.

++

John has guarded Sherlock's rest, his post-shower exhaustion, as much as he can. He has turned away some various volunteers who have popped round and he has requested that a visit be rescheduled from case management. Even the nurse checks his IV medication, his IV site, agrees to come back a bit later for some non-urgent discussions, and he has managed to slip on the portable pulse oximeter that has been kept on Sherlock's windowsill, left by a respiratory therapist, while Sherlock has remained asleep so he could ... be comforted in watching that truly he is okay and that the shower was not detrimental. His oxygen flow, he knows, is too high to go home without supplemental oxygen although the trends are overall promising. He is searching on his mobile for a rental company when he receives a text from Lydia, as he requested, when they are about a half hour from arriving. Gingerly, he awakens Sherlock with a slow word, a touch on the back of his hand. Sherlock's eyes open slowly and blink into focus.

"Hey, Rosie's coming. She's on her way, soon." John hears some hallway noise, a cart, a tray, the irregular clump of a walker and the cues from physical therapist. "Thought you'd like to wake up a bit."

He furrows his eyebrows, stretches, and coughs. "Are you sure it's not going to bother her? Me, here."

"Lydia, the au pair is coming too. If it's too much, they'll take off." John brushes his hand along Sherlock's arm. "She's going to be glad to see you, but ..."

"But what?"

"Maybe at least more awake, sitting up? Which is why I woke you a bit early. And...." John considers the closet, the bag he'd brought, "I have something I think you'll like."

"An Uber confirmation for a ride to Baker Street is probably the only ..." He sighs when he sees John's uninspired expression and then watches him as he rummages in the backpack. "Rosie. Of course. I'll like that. Unless she decides this is all too scary and begins to shriek uncontroll--"

His words halt as he gets a glimpse of what John is holding out in front of him.

"Yes."

A pair of muted blue and green plaid pair of sleep pants is in front of him, along with an oversized tee shirt. "It's not ideal, but it'll help." Sherlock's expression turns annoyed. "What? What's the matter?"

"They've been here with me since yesterday and you're_ just now_ getting them out of the bag?"

"Sherlock."

"Don't _Sherlock_ me." He holds out an imperious hand. "Give them to me." Flinging back the sheets, his exuberance fades just a little as he eyes the various things he is still connected to - oxygen, foot pumps, the IV, heart monitor, telemetry pack, and the ugly patient gown he is wearing. "And ..." He glares at his own feet, at the pyjamas that John holds, the ceiling. Glares hard at John.

"I'll give you a hand. It'll feel good, trust me."

Glancing over at John's words, there is a second or two of actually listening to what John said, his word choices. John hesitates, recalling, as one side of Sherlock's mouth quirks in a smile, and he looks back at John with amusement.

"Yes, if you were thirteen, that would have been hysterical." He does not surrender the pants right away, but unhooks the foot pumps so Sherlock can slide his feet in and then gestures to the floor so he can stand up, slide the pants up and to tie the drawstring, the gown fluttering in front of him. After sitting back down, John studies the gown, the IV, and it takes a little bit of doing, but the gown is eventually swapped out for the tee shirt, a brief aseptic disconnection of the IV, the oxygen and telemetry monitoring still attached, and just that activity has Sherlock's breathing a bit laboured, his respiratory rate, and most likely his heart rate too, elevated.

Sherlock’s smile is fleeting but one of the most genuine ones he’s worn since his collapse, his admission, this terrible journey. The single word conveys his gratitude, his increased comfort, his appreciation. “John.”

"Rest a bit," John suggests, but it isn't long before a nurse comes in to check on them, followed shortly into the room by a respiratory therapist. A few minutes later, his oxygen level is being monitored again, his liter flow is turned up, and they are both cautioned to conserve Sherlock's energy.

"You're having a visitor, I hear?" the nurse asks.

"My daughter," John says quietly. "She's not quite two."

"Don't let her wear you out then, Mr. Holmes."

The respiratory therapist adjusts the oxygen again, and considers the portable pulse oximeter. "Might be good to keep this on a bit. And I'm not saying wear it continuously, but use it as a gauge if you can. People wear oxygen at home all the time, of course, and titrate by symptoms or number." He takes a listen again to Sherlock's chest. "You're at four again. Number's just over ninety." He adjusts the incentive spirometer again, setting the target a little higher. "When you're done visiting, use this again, check your number. Have the nurse call me if you're uncomfortable, or you can dial the oxygen down by half a liter if you want."

"He's a bloody physician," Sherlock mutters. "Pretty sure he could handle your job without breaking a sweat."

John's eyes widen. _"Sherlock!"_ To the therapist, he apologises. "Sorry. If you're okay if we titrate by those parameters, I'm fine. If you prefer that we call you, I --"

Sherlock wastes no time interrupting. "Yes, what a good use of everyone's time and effort, to call you every ten minutes for an oxygen adjustment."

Fortunately, instead of being offended, the therapist chuckles a little. "I'll leave you to it, then. We'll check round pretty often, or have the nurse call me."

"Wow, are they going to be glad to get rid of you," John observes once it is just them left in the room.

Sherlock's brow raises. "And you accused me of not knowing how to play the game. That's the point. Hasten and facilitate the discharge to home."

"By being a total berk?"

"I've only just begun."

John is saved from having to respond to the illogic of that when Lydia knocks lightly on the door as she enters, Rosie in the pushchair. John smiles and approaches his daughter, his arms open and reaching toward her. She reaches back for him, a big toothy grin.

Meanwhile, Lydia makes a gesture toward John that releases him from the task of introducing them, holds out a hand toward the bed, where Sherlock is reclining. "Lydia. Rosie's temporary au pair. Nice to meet you."

John keeps an ear attuned to their conversation, expecting abrasiveness and immediate offensive comments, but Sherlock shakes her hand in return. "Likewise. Sherlock. Thanks for bringing her." He smirks. "And apologies for my brother. Please disregard everything he thinks he knows about me."

She almost cackles, and Sherlock appreciates her levity. Her sharp eyes take in the room, his perceptions, the way John is more relaxed. “Pretty sure I’m on to the whole lot of you.”

By this point, John has Rosie unbuckled and is holding her, trying to gauge her reactions. He slides into the chair by Sherlock's bed and Rosie is immediately scrambling off. And trying to climb determinedly onto Sherlock's bed, patting it and bouncing, clearly communicating that she wants to be UP! The smile Sherlock bestows on her is warm and sweet, and he reaches to assist her, with John's help, on climbing all the way up. She crawls toward his face, knee in the gut, the other knee too close for comfort on an even more sensitive area. Her hand reaches toward the oxygen tubing on his face. She has every intention of pulling it off and remains focused on that until John realises that he is losing the battle and sounds a retreat, pulling her back onto his own lap.

Lydia chuckles, hands John a couple of items she has brought: a new board book with hidden flaps, and a small, collapsible cooler. "I'm going to step out, give you some space."

"It isn't necessary," John begins, but she is already heading toward the door and waving.

"Text me," she instructs just before the door closes behind her.

Rosie continues to lunge toward Sherlock, intent on the nasal cannula (on _dislodging_ the nasal cannula, her mission apparently) until John manages to distract her with the new book. She chortles at the hidden objects, points at things he draws her attention to, the pictures behind the cardboard flaps, and John gets through it twice before she takes it from him, holds it out to Sherlock.

John settles her in the crook of Sherlock's arm, grateful that the IV line is mostly out of her sight, and he begins to read to her, then suddenly turns the book upside down. Rosie hesitates only a moment before giggling and saying 'no' and inverting the book back to rightside up. He does it again, teasing her, and finally he gives an exaggerated sigh and begins to read it from the beginning. A few pages in, and she turns her head to look up at him. His words falter as she stares and her hand sneaks up over her head to catch a pudgy finger underneath the nasal cannula again and yanking at it. Grimacing, he catches her hand while John intervenes, fixing where the tubing has tugged halfway down Sherlock's ear and coming dislodged from his nose.

"Enough, you," he says when her other hand sneaks up in determination to remove Sherlock's oxygen, and picks her off Sherlock's lap. "Maybe some lunch?"

They enjoy Rosie's continual eating antics, her spirit, and Sherlock's lunch is delivered on a tray, but, as John begins to eat the lunch that Lydia had thoughtfully included for him, he realises that Sherlock is quite apparently not interested in his own but in John's. A trade is made, and it is only a little bit later that Rosie has eaten everything she wanted and is bored. John takes her by the hand and they walk the halls, and when they return, the other things that are in her bag don't interest her in the least. A quick text to Lydia and she comes back to rescue Rosie.

There is another knock at the door, and a tech enters along with a nurse close behind. "Thought we'd descend on you all at once." A little concerned at more strangers in the room, Rosie snuggles into John's neck as she watches them attend to Sherlock - obtaining vital signs, checking his oxygen level (mid nineties, so another adjustment is made to the flowmeter), and the nurse makes a few pokes at his arm in which the IV is running. "This bothering you at all?"

"Of course it is. There's a foreign plastic tube that was _very unskillfully_ shoved through my skin into an unhappy vein ..."

"Sherlock," John cautions, his eyes wide, hoping that he won't get too miserable in front of Rosie.

"... and secured with unforgiving, nonpermeable tape ..."

She pinches the tubing and there is a faint flashback of blood, which is good, but there is still a faint scowl on her face. "Site's three days old, they don't last forever. I'm going to ask our IV nurse to evaluate, possibly start a new one."

"Let's just discontinue it altogether."

She presses her lips together, her head shaking just a little. "You can plead your case with the IV team." She double checks his pulses, the dressings that have survived the shower, discreetly feeling for haematoma or signs of bleeding. "You'll lose," she predicts. "But good luck."

Lydia and Sherlock exchange a few snippy pleasantries, mostly about Sherlock's brother and the request of Sherlock for extra ammunition in the form of embarrassing stories or recent mistakes, food cravings, gets flatly turned down. "John has your number, so, perhaps when this nightmare is over, I'll make contact. Trust me, I pay quite well for raw material, and --"

"I had to sign a waiver prior to taking this job, promising no alliances with you."

For a moment, Sherlock is shocked, then he determines that she is teasing him. John doesn't think so, not entirely anyway, but they let the subject drop.

"Young lady," Lydia says kindly in Rosie's direction, "I think you have an appointment with your cot."

"Oh, wait, before you leave," Sherlock recalls the gift he has, and asks John to retrieve it from the closet. Once he is holding the bag, he grins at Rosie. "I brought you something from my trip, while I was away." She squirms, but once in his arms she goes after the nasal cannula again rather than the bag. John gets involved, distracts her with the gift bag again, the present, and she does then finally take note of it, pulls out a tissue papered bundle.

The tissue paper falls away and she makes a huge exclamation of surprise and pleasure when she is left holding a stuffed, floppy eared bunny. It is pale blue with big eyes and a satiny bow.

She gives Sherlock a cued hug, a sloppy but spontaneous kiss, and then tries to pull off the oxygen again while she is close. When Lydia and John do finally get her packed up and ready to return to Baker Street, she is holding the bunny tightly.

"That was nice. She loves it," John says after it is just them again, and the room is much more somber, quiet.

"Unfortunately, apparently it isn't the only thing I brought home with me. Though the blood clots were not exactly something I meant to acquire."

The IV nurse arrives, pushing a small wheeled cart with supplies on it, and labours a bit finding a suitable vein to replace the IV site, which she agrees with the primary nurse that it isn't going to last much longer. "Hopefully," she says once she's finished, the dressing marked, a stretchy white tube placed overtop all of it, "this will be the last site you'll need before getting sprung."

"Oh, it's the last one." Sherlock's voice is dark and not quite threatening. But his intention is clear.

"Well, hopefully this should last you another few days then."

He tips his head back into the pillow, discouraged, as the IV nurse wishes him well before stepping from the room. Sherlock's sigh is somewhere between depressive and aggravated. "What's my level now?"

John is initially curious, but then sees that Sherlock has very quietly stuck out his index finger for the pulse oximeter probe again. Instead of putting it on, he asks a question, "How are you feeling?"

"John?"

"No, it's a valid question. Are you feeling air hungry? Like it's low?"

Sherlock doesn't answer that either, and his eyes stay closed. Eventually, he opens his eyes and pin them unhappily on John's face. "I'm sick of being here. And I want to go home." His words are flat with an edge of don't mess with me, and the threat is not lost on John.

The pulse oximeter powers on with a beep, and John slips it over Sherlock's finger. On a whim, he lays his hand down over the the back of Sherlock's. It does not go over well, and he angrily shakes loose, dislodging the probe as well. "Sorry, here let me ..."

"You know what, never mind."

The afternoon, Sherlock mostly is silent, a rare unhappy word spoken only when absolutely necessary. John tries to draw him out, finds that nothing pleases him on the few channels of television available in the hospital network, and his heart just goes out to the man stuck - trapped - in the bed. He slips out while Sherlock seems to be sleeping, wanders down through the hospital lobby, buys all three of the newspapers available and a small assortment of sweets. None of those matter to Sherlock, who doesn't actually even acknowledge John's efforts, his attempt, his presence.

"Sherlock, really, is there anything, anything at all --?"

"Just... stop." Without even picking his head up off the pillow, he casts a disheartened glance at John. "Did we make any progress at all with that?" His eyes flick over his shoulder to the flowmeter.

"Not really. Two, well, no actually three liters, still."

"Just ... just go home, okay. One of us may as well."

John knows that, in Sherlock's mind, this is unfixable. Untenable. "Not that much longer, actually. Day after tomorrow."

"To go home on oxygen and be trapped in the flat. Great."

"You do realise they make portable tanks."

"Because that's just what I want. Sling it on like a backpack, over my _coat_, shall I?"

John finds that he is tired of pussyfooting around the misery. "Would you rather stay here?" Sherlock gives him a mildly shocked, mildly amused glare. "What, I think it's a fair question. We're doing the best we can here."

"We can manage this at home." He looks at the IV pump again, where the green light blinks slowly, infusing, infusing, infusing. "That is unnecessary." His fingers find a portion of the oxygen tubing that snakes around in his bed before slinking over his shoulder to the wall unit. "And you said it yourself, this can be obtained for home use."

"Disagree, on the IV heparin at least. You're a scientist of sorts. And you can't argue with the data." He leans closer, lowers his voice and makes sure that there is not a trace of anger or frustration; Sherlock has enough of that for both of them. "What would be an acceptable risk to you, of risking your brain, risking your lungs, or your life, for your convenience? Thirty percent?"

There is not a valid comeback for that. Sherlock huffs, turns on his side away from John.

"Look, I'm sorry we're here. Mostly. But there's a large part of me that's grateful. I thought a few days ago that ..." He can't bring the words out. "We'll get through this. You will."

The next exhale is more resigned, and a little of the fight is out of Sherlock's body language, his shoulders. He flicks off the pulse oximeter again and John let's it beep twice, three times, before powering it off. "I'm sorry I'm lousy company. Just, please, go home. You staying here only makes me feel more ... responsible for making you miserable too."

John does not on any level want to leave, but wonders if it would be easier for Sherlock if he does. "I can come back later."

"Tomorrow is fine."

"Text me if you change your mind."

Ask me to stay, ask me, just ask me._ Just one word_, John thinks, and the echoes of the phrase swirl in his mind for a moment. But there is none.

He moves the overbed table close, the newspapers and candy in reach, the call bell, his mobile (with a reasonably charged battery now). He embraces the full stop need to comfort, pulls the blanket up and tucks it over Sherlock's shoulder, making sure to leave room at his throat because he knows he doesn't like things close to his neck unless it's one of his warm, luxurious scarves. "I'll see you later," he says quietly, sliding a hand up along Sherlock's jaw. He presses his lips to Sherlock's cheek, not too long, just enough to convey the kindness, the caring.

The door closes softly behind him on those delayed closure hinges, and each step farther away, John feels just a little bit more empty.

The words he used to reassure Sherlock, he speaks to himself. Only another day and a half.

++

Lydia is surprised to see John sitting in his chair when she returns to the flat with Rosie. "Just out to the park. Your princess really loves the swing."

John sips at his tea, lamenting inwardly that the tea doesn't taste all that great in the flat either. He knows deep down that it is the company, the missing piece that is across town in a hospital bed, that would greatly sweeten the day, the tea, all of it. "So, the swing?" Rosie waits only long enough for Lydia to unzip her coat until she is scampering across the room to John. He swoops her up, pressing his nose to her cheek, "You smell like fresh air." And when he nuzzles at her neck, she giggles, presses away.

"You're home early." Lydia keeps an eye on Rosie but sits down across from John.

"Well, my company wasn't helping."

"Two more days?"

"Hopefully. But, well, I was hoping you'd stay the first day or so, just in case ... Once he's here and settled, I'm sure it'll go fine, but I'm just worried."

"Long as you need me," she nods, her attention then over on Rosie who is getting into something across the room. John turns back to his tea, enjoying the way Rosie is engaged and entertained.

John ends up in the mood for cottage pie for dinner, and takes Rosie with him to do some shopping, then prepares dinner for the three of them. It is nice, a bit of a respite from the vigilance over Sherlock and being mostly at the hospital for such long hours. He is attentive to his mobile, sends a few texts to Sherlock, which are received, read, and responded to with single-word brevity. 

He gives Rosie her bath and tucks her in, enjoying her clean fresh smell and her hugs and she goes easily into her cot clutching the blue bunny, and its ears flop over her fingers, under her chin, her flushed cheeks rosy over her tired but adorable smile. The moment is so cute that he can't help but take a quick photo of her, snuggling under a blanket in her fleecy footed pyjamas, and then before he thinks better of it he sends it off to Sherlock.

It goes unread.

He thinks about calling the nurses station to check on him. He thinks about jailbreaking him. Thinks about just going over to spare him being trapped with his own worst enemy - himself.

In the meantime, he chats with Lydia a little, worrying at his mobile, until finally Lydia sighs with mock despair. She looks at him with no small degree of frustration, her grin at him good-natured and followed by a gesture of expectancy. Stubbornly, John doesn't answer at first.

"I'm not sure who is more stubborn, of the three of you. For pity's sake, Dr. Watson," and she continues to shake her head at him.

John knows what he needs to do, and makes a self-deprecating noise, puts his face in his hands briefly. "I think," he begins, with an attitude as if he's just now realising, "I may head back over to the hospital for a little. Watch a movie or something with him. He's terrible company right now, but, well, I guess so am I."

"Go. It's where you need to be, I think. We're fine here, and you're not bad company. Not at all. But your head - and your heart - is elsewhere." She offers a few suggestions as he grabs his laptop, charger, a few movies, and his smile becomes a trace more hopeful.

"Yeah, that sounds ..." He rubs a tired hand over his face, knowing that his smile is lost and forlorn, and knows she is right about his heart. "Okay. Good idea. You'll let me --"

She is on her feet. "I know how to reach you." She hands a few more items for his bag and gives him an encouraging smile as he leaves.

The hospital is settling to sleep, and for all the hustle and bustle of the ICU, the acute care floors are much more relaxed, hushed, making at least an attempt to allow for patients to get their much needed rest. He approaches Sherlock's room, bag in hand, and the staff looks up in a little bit of surprise that he is here so late. But there are smiles and nods as he puts a hand on Sherlock's just barely ajar door.

He is still on his side, staring out the window into the darkness outside, and only the nightlight is on in the room, the small down-ward lit soft light that illuminates just enough so the nurses don't trip when they enter the room at night.

"Thought I'd come keep you company," he says quietly.

There is no response.

"Brought a movie to watch on my laptop."

"Suit yourself."

It takes John a bit of moving around, rearranging a few things after turning on the light, but thankfully the room is large enough to accommodate what he has in mind. He slides the recliner next to Sherlock's bed, lowers Sherlock's siderail on that side so that, with a faint adjustment to the height of Sherlock's bed, they are pretty close together. The overbed table fits nicely over the foot of Sherlock's bed, the laptop a comfortable distance from them both, and he flips the lightswitch back off. The room is more peaceful, muffled, and he settles into the recliner, ditches his shoes, and fires up the movie. From out of the bag, he pulls two beers in an insulated holders, twists off both caps.

"Pretty sure I'm not allowed that."

"Shh. Forgiveness if we're caught rather than permission."

"Pretty certain you're violating visitation rules."

"Shut up and drink your beer."

"Do you actually still hold a medical license?"

"Shh. Moderation." He reaches back into the bag as the opening introduction of the movie scrolls. "Didn't have popcorn," he apologises as he removes a bag of pretzels. The small bag of candy that'd bought earlier, he notices that it has actually been opened, and he draws that close too.

"What are you doing?"

He looks over at Sherlock, who is watching him. The glow from the laptop screen catches on his eyes, which are darkly glittering back at him. John smiles. "Maybe I'm trying to help you get kicked out of here."

"No you're not." He looks back at the movie. Another action film that they'd watched a long time ago that was passably good. Enjoyable even. "Bloody rule follower."

John holds out the bottle in his hand, clicks it against Sherlock's, toasting their rebellion. They exchange a grin at the irony and each man takes a sip of the beer, and it is good. Very good even. John hesitates, feels Sherlock's eyes on him, knows it needs to be said. "Rather be here with you than anywhere else." The truth winds around between them both, the words settling over them. He doesn't qualify it, doesn't apologise, doesn't clarify.

Sherlock leans down, carefully not to catch his IV on anything, takes the blanket and spreads it over them both. John scoots closer to the edge of the recliner so that they are near enough to feel each other's body heat. The movie, the beer, the pretzels, and the blanket are a nice combination. It's not the sitting room on Baker Street, not like sitting near each other on their couch, but it is satisfying all the same. Although they only speak a little, the words aren't necessary to enjoy where they are. Despite the warmth of the blanket and the company, John feels the chill of the room in his feet, tucks his toes under Sherlock's pyjama-clad calves.

A little while later, a nurse pushes open the door, and John wordlessly reaches out a finger to pause the movie.

"Just checking in. You guys okay?" With minimal fuss, she holds out a thermometer, which Sherlock puts under his tongue, cycles a blood pressure, checks his oxygen level. It is passable but the oxygen stays where it is. She checks out the computer screen, where the characters are awkwardly frozen in digital mid-movement. "Oh, this is a great movie. One of my favourites." With a small torch in her hand, she checks out the flowmeter, looks at the backlit IV pump. "Things look good. IV site is ...?" Sherlock holds out his arm for her to check and holds back what John knows would like to be a biting comment. Her eyes settle on the beer and she grins just a little. "Don't over-do that, okay? Sometimes certain medications along with alcohol aren't a good idea. Side effects and interactions, one can potentiate the other." Sherlock nudges John under the covers. "Especially blood thinners."

"My doctor brought this to me," Sherlock mutters. "And if you try to take it away from me, I swear I'll drink the rest in one gulp." Sherlock isn't usually a big beer drinker, but John can certainly understand his need to be defiant.

"It's only the one," John assures her.

"One what," she says. "I don't see anything. And I don't think I see you, either," she directs at John. There is the faint sound of a chuckle as she leaves, only to return a few moments later with extra toothbrush, toothpaste, towel, and hospital slippers. With a wriggle of her eyebrows at the two of them, she ghosts from the room, the door closing completely behind her.

"While the movie is paused, I need ..." Sherlock begins, and it takes them a few minutes to remove and unbuckle what they can, and to unplug the IV pump from the wall so that he can push it into the bathroom.

"You've got it ..."

"From here, yes, fairly certain I haven't forgotten my toilet training ..."

"I meant with the equipment, there's a lot."

By the time the toilet flushes, the water runs, there is the sound of oral care, Sherlock shuffles back to the bed a little more slowly, his equipment, the foot pumps are all connected, John opts to visit the bathroom, brush his teeth as well. They settle back under the blankets, close as they'd been. They restart the movie, and the room is bathed with the faint laptop glow. Sherlock slides his pillow a bit closer to John's shoulder, then nearly abandons it altogether, and their fingers find each other, meeting in the middle, tentative and curious at first, then there is warmth and strength as they twine and settle. Neither one of them is awake when the movie comes to an end.

++

John awakens when the door opens, more from the atmospheric change than the noise, the sensation of air movement, and initially has no idea what time it is. There is faint, early dawn light just beginning, barely coming in through the window, and Sherlock is still sound asleep, his face relaxed, the oxygen still in. His long eyelashes drape down toward his cheeks, his fringe still much fluffier than it has been previously, clean and washed but without his usual product that tames the curl, the wildness. His mouth is slightly open, just the faintest little bit, and his chest rises and falls comfortably. Now and again, the IV pump with its protective medication, makes a gentle, motorised pulsating noise, its usually silent function just faintly audible in the absolute stillness of the room. Another blanket has been spread over the two of them and the laptop screen is completely dark. Both of their mobiles lie on the table, the empty beer bottles absent.

There is the silhouette of someone peering in, unintrusively as much as possible, to check on them, and moments later, the door closes again.

John sighs to himself, very glad that he returned to the hospital, that they had a relatively uneventful night. His shoulder and his neck are stiff, he realises as he stretches just a bit, finding another comfortable position, although the recliner certainly could have done him worse.

There is a deeper breath from the man in the bed, stirring, or thinking about it anyway. John takes another few minutes just watching him, enjoying the togetherness.

He wriggles onto his side, biding his time, cozy under the thoughtfully provided blanket. His mind centers, focuses:

It is morning. One more day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an excellent article by Dr. Shafiq Qaadri regarding rewiring the addicted brain, available [here](https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/health-and-fitness/health-advisor/beating-addiction-requires-rewiring-your-brain/article19403926/). The article ends with this sentence: The brain calls from our depths, from the subterranean recesses of our mind. 
> 
> A good read.
> 
> ++
> 
> I absolutely do not advocate bringing in alcohol for patients. I do cautiously advocate for the occasional rule breaking provided there is no harm.
> 
> Please notice that John did not get in the bed with him. Hospital beds should be kept as clean as possible, which means keep your dirty clothes, shoes, purses, bags, and paraphernalia that has been outside collecting bacteria/dirt off the bed. Please, it is not your entitlement to sit or lay on it. Just, _don't_. Surgical patients, any patient at risk of infection (which means almost all of them), do not need exposure to any additional risk. I wish I had a nickel for every time I provided (another) empty chair and tactfully asked visitors to get off the bed in my patient's rooms. And if I have to ask a second time, it might not be so tactful.
> 
> I'm also not necessarily recommending that anyone should just assume it's okay to spend the night in a patient room without permission. Though I do think in most cases there are benefits for patients and families.
> 
> Heading out of town for the rest of the weekend. If there are edits, anything unclear, be assured I'll be getting to that in a few days. Wanted to get this out there anyway, thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, and the chapter count ... well, of course, went up again. But we're in the home stretch now.
> 
> "I want to go home." 
> 
> Soon, Sherlock.


	14. I've Got it From Here, Thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few non-linear moments in this chapter.

Unlikely Friendships is a book by J. Holland (2011) that cites examples of animals adopting, nurturing, caring, and parenting other animal species. There are multiple examples - apes, cats, dogs, owls, squirrels, whales, and dolphins. The stories are touching; the photos, heartwarming. Sometimes a drastic need (such as being orphaned, injured, or neglected) triggers the behavior, the drive - the affinity, if you will - to nurture, to nourish, to oversee, to adopt. Sometimes just to _befriend._ It is sometimes an unlikely relationship and an unusual combination of instinct and empathy on the part of the caregiver.

Greg cast a frustrated glance at the constables who had their hands full assuring scene safety. The assailant, already hauled off for processing. The location, something of a mess after a scuffle, a burglary gone awry with a definite drug-dealing and drug-seeking component, uncertain motivation, and then more. To top it off, they'd run across some young, overly tall impertinent rascal of a kid with big feet, cheekbones that he hadn't quite grown into, and an even bigger attitude. Impaired, almost assuredly. Had to be. Pointing out connections that were so improbable that initially, Greg had been inclined to discount everything he was saying. Until one of his deductions was uncovered and proven true. And another implication, confirmed. And it was uniquely intelligent, almost brilliant, despite the complete lack of tact.

The kid was being detained by the uniforms and struggling now, trying to pull away, to run off, his speech pressured and the faintest bit panicky. He heard a few vague words from his co-workers, something about notifying family, about drug testing, about hauling his sorry arse off to jail if he didn't come clean with how he could possibly have known these things, unless he too had been in on it.

There was something about him. Something deeper than first blush. Something intuitive. And Greg, only recently promoted to chief constable, sensed something more than just the look in his eyes or the keen brilliance. An unmet need. Deep-seated scars. Brokenness that he was trying very hard to hide. But _tonnes_ of potential. The makings of a great man, a diamond in the rough. It called somehow, something deep inside Greg’s core - instinct and empathy - that he had a job to do, tasks above and beyond, to come to the aid of this particular kid.

"Hold on a moment. I want to talk with him." The constables didn't let go of the bloke straight away, but gave Greg their full attention as he approached. The steely blue-gray eyes met his, solid, intense, a challenge. Greg’s gaze answered back, don’t mess with me, I see what you’re all about. A flicker of gratitude passed by, and Greg found affirmation in it. This was the _beginning_. With a serious tone, authoritative, "I've got it from here, mates. Thanks."

Affinity.

++

By the time Sherlock - exhausted on physical and emotional levels - opens his eyes and shows signs of alertness, John is sitting upright, quietly, watching and waiting. The recliner has been returned to its upright position on silent mechanisms, the blanket folded. He's slid back into his shoes and run his fingers through his hair, but no more than that in his attempt to not disturb Sherlock's much-needed slumber. Two nurses come in, tentatively, report sheet in the oncoming nurse's hand, for walking rounds. There is a brief introduction, a confirmation of the oxygen flow level - back down to two liters, oxygen level of ninety-one, and the heparin infusion continuing at the previous rate. "Need anything?" the new nurse asks.

Before coffee, before tea, Sherlock isn't quite completely awake yet and only shakes his head no. The nurse consults her paperwork. "I didn't see that the phlebotomist has been in yet. They'll be drawing some blood shortly." There is a snort from the patient which seems to momentarily unsettle the nurse. "I mean, it's necessary, and ..."

His brain engages along with his cynicism. "I'm sure I won't _bite_ her or anything." John holds his words, knowing that choosing battles here is the wisest course of action. "Unless she's completely incompetent."

She trips over whatever words she was intending to say, and John thinks that perhaps some early intervention is wise. He stands up, slowly, working the kinks out of his back, his neck, and, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm, says, "It'll be fine." His knees give a faint crack and he tries to stifle the groan that he knows Sherlock will only mock him for.

Her smile is timid but appreciative, and she adds, "I know some discharge planning is happening today too, get things set for tomorrow. They'll be by to see about the oxygen, if you need it, how that all works."

"We could skip that, and I could just leave today."

"You'd best stay," she says, a little more boldly, for which John is particularly thankful. Last thing he needs is a nurse who shows any kind of chink in her armour. He is well aware that Sherlock is going to be in rare form and feisty today. "I know the doctors have worked hard to get you here, and this is what the doctor ordered."

"Both of them," John adds as he narrows one eye at him, and the nurses comment to each other about something unrelated as they leave the room.

"I didn't expect to sleep so well," Sherlock says. "I mean, tossed a bit, but ..." He stretches, best he can still attached to the IV. "I think I'm going to ... I need to ..." and he begins to disconnect what he can, indicating that he needs to get up.

"You want help?"

"I think I'm ..." The foot pumps are removed, slippers placed, the long oxygen tubing he just assures will reach across the room unencumbered, and he straightens his tee shirt, re-ties the pyjama drawstring before taking care of the IV pump. "Got it."

"By the time you're ready for home, you'll be an expert."

"Oh trust me, make no mistake, I'm ready for home now."

"I know. Tomorrow." John smiles at him, sees that he does seem to have everything in its place for him to get into the bathroom. "I'll go get us some tea, be back in a tic."

"Fine."

++

John returns a handful of minutes later, everything taking longer than it should have. He is holding two steaming cups of tea, in paper cups this time, but hot and quite anticipated none-the-less. He finds Sherlock scowling, from his vantage point on the edge of the bed, at his brother, who is standing at the foot of the bed.

Mycroft looks quite solemn, given that he came supposedly to visit his brother and presumably cheer him up, but he turns to greet John. "Good morning."

"To you as well." John sets Sherlock's tea on the table within his reach, and offers the remaining cup in his hand toward Mycroft. "Would you like this one? I can get another I suppose," he says but they all can tell that he is hoping Mycroft will refuse.

"Thank you, no."

"Mycroft is his usual unhelpful, _boring_ self."

"What crime did he commit this morning? Failing to cater to you, refusing to take you home?"

"Something like that, yes."

"I understand that tomorrow is the big day." Mycroft shakes his head no when John gestures at the chair, and John eases into it himself. Very few things should ever interrupt hot tea, morning caffeine, and he isn't about to wait longer than absolutely necessary. The first sip is warm and spreads through his chest, his arms, soothing and satisfying. Mycroft shuffles faintly on the balls of his feet, watching Sherlock do the same to his tea but not with the same reverence that John shows. _Pedestrian_, he thinks. "How do you like these accommodations?"

"Hateful," Sherlock replies immediately.

"They're actually ... quite nice, considering." John knows that Mycroft in all likelihood pulled some strings to get Sherlock a nicer, larger than average, well-equipped private room with a few upgraded amenities. "I take it we have you to thank?"

"I did it to spare the potential roommate unconscionable horrors, had they been forced to share a room with him." He takes in the recliner, the extra slippers, the way the blankets were folded, and the still somewhat rumpled-ness of John. "And apparently for some other reasons as well."

"Yesterday was difficult," John mentions, knowing that he doesn't have to justify himself, but doesn't mind explaining. "And I ended up back over here late."

"Something you seem to have been neglecting, visiting," Sherlock's eyes were bright again, and he sipped again at the tea. "Too many other things, much more important, obviously."

"I've been keeping well abreast of how you've been progressing. From John of course, and your other treating physicians."

"You've been avoiding me."

Mycroft's face puckers just a little, a few storm clouds gathering behind his expression, then relaxes, but his eyes are steady and he glances at John quickly then considers his brother again. "If you must know, coming to see you in places like this, is not exactly full of positive associations from ... those other, previous times." He takes a quick peer toward the doorway, and then, "Dr. Watson, a word please."

Sherlock lets out a bark of disbelief. "If you have concerns, Mycroft, please do not feel the need to go out and consult in the hallway as if I have no clue what you're discussing." 

"All right then, as you wish," he says, then addresses John, "I just wanted to suggest that, prior to Sherlock's discharge, that his pain medication needs are carefully monitored. Last I had been updated by his physician, it didn't seem that he was taking anything especially strong for discomfort."

John fights against the urge to get overly defensive, overly territorial. "He hasn't. For all that he's been through, procedures, tubes, immobility, everything else, he's only requested mild stuff, paracetamol. Last dose of anything stronger," and John puzzles, considers Sherlock for help with determining that, who shrugs. "May have been two days ago." Something in Mycroft's eyes is shining too brightly, a warning, a hurt. It is as if, John thinks, Mycroft is wounded beneath those icy surface layers he so carefully maintains. "I understand your concern, but ..." _Trust me, I've got this._

"No, I don't think you do. It has been several times that it has fallen to me to be the one to have him ... involuntarily admitted for rehab." John is grateful that he doesn't use the word 'sectioned,' although that is likely what he is referring to, what had actually happened. Mycroft's skin, his face, is suddenly pale, his hands trembling just a bit, about which he is completely self-conscious and surreptitiously buries them into his trouser pockets. "I don't know how much you remember," and his pale eyes lock onto Sherlock's, "but all of that is vividly ... unpleasant for me, as if it were yesterday. And I have no wish to ever repeat any of that."

"I have John to help me now." Sherlock's words are quiet. "But even so, it isn't necessary. Nothing I can't handle. Nothing about this is comfortable - which you would know had you been here more often - and there is still some pain." John looks over at him, worried at the disclosure. Sherlock glances over, notices the mildly concerned expression, so he explains, "Mostly when I take a deep breath. But I am managing it."

Mycroft finds something interesting on the floor to study, then, and John knows he needs to speak up. He makes sure his tone is soft, genuine. "It must have been awful, before." He considers the timing of this last relapse, with Culverton Smith and the downward spiral that Sherlock had been in. "I'm sorry I wasn't more involved then." That time had been a dark place for John then, too, his own struggles as a newly widowed, single parent, his guilt. "But we are on it. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock's eyes turn questioningly toward John, and they hold for a few seconds. "I'm rather invested."

"And I see, he's wearing one of your tee shirts." His chin raises as he looks at John. "Cute," he sneers just a bit, and then adds, "That simply smacks of adolescent commitment."

"Or resourcefulness." Mycroft's face smirks again, and John leans closer. "Pretty sure you don't want to mess with me before I've finished my tea." John takes another sip, the Holmes brother games somehow extra wearying this early in the morning. "Was there something else you needed, or are you here just to trade insults."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to insult one of your tee shirts."

"Because we save the insults for your jumpers, which are far more --" Sherlock jumps into the conversation.

Mycroft interrupts, and the quickness, the sharp reply accompanies Mycroft folding his arms in front of him. "I will grant you that the pyjamas are far more _tolerable_ than those hideous patient gowns."

"Apparently your _tolerance_," John presses his own word back at him, "for any sort of serious discussion is limited to about thirty seconds. We were discussing --"

"It's better that way," Sherlock mutters, "honestly," as he begins to settle back into the bed, still fatigued at the simple act minutes before of crossing the room and then sitting on the side of the bed. "He'll leave quicker if you just humour him."

"Like you're not antagonising him either." John chuckles with mock surrender, the moment being more light-hearted than particularly confrontational. "But I do appreciate your concern, taking care of the room, and keeping tabs on discharge plans, and his history. But overall, other than a bit of grouchiness, ..."

"If I am grouchy, it is only because you cretins refuse to help me."

"... he's actually doing quite well." Sherlock actually snorts at that, and John gives him a bit of a glare. "I could certainly repossess the tee shirt. And the tea, since you seem to think I'm not helping you in any way."

In answer, Sherlock holds the tea a bit closer to his mouth, touches his tongue to the lip of the cup. It is as close to sticking his tongue out as he's going to get this morning. John ignores it.

Quietly, Mycroft clears his throat. "I have wanted to come visit more often, but." The man gives a hard swallow, and actually looks a bit embarrassed, "I know you've been in good hands." A quick breath, a lift of his head, then seems to be ready to change gears again. "You'll be in touch, then, as things progress?" He waits for John to nod. "Have you considered asking Lydia to stay, even once you are all home, just to make sure --"

"I've already spoken to her, and --"

"John is perfectly capable —" Sherlock mutters.

"Yes, she'll be staying on for a bit. At least the first day. It's unnecessary, I'm sure."

"Tomorrow then?"

"If things go as planned." John hates to couch the phrase so, but there is always the chance that something will delay it, a complication, an unforeseen issue.

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock's feet are back in the bed, but he freezes for a moment while John helps connect the foot pumps again, tossing the covers over his legs.

"Just that. The _plan_ is for tomorrow."

"Oh, I'll be leaving tomorrow." The threat is real, and John doesn't doubt it. Not even a little.

"You will do what your _doctor_ tells you to do," Mycroft says with quite the veiled inference in his words. He looks pointedly, specifically, almost fiercely at John, but underneath that is some pleading. John lets his smile twitch briefly enough, to reassure, to convey trust.

"We'll just see about that." Sherlock misses completely the small exchange, the _trust me, I've got it from here, _in John's confident nod, and Mycroft's_ thank you_ spoken in eyebrows and facial messages.

John stretches out his neck again and flexes his stiff shoulder, settles into the chair, and sips at his tea to hide his smile.

++

The morning passes slowly, broken up by visits from the nurses, doctors, and others. The phlebotomist, who by the time does the actual venipuncture, her hands are shaking because Sherlock has her so rattled. The results, once they arrive, are within expected ranges and there are no further adjustments necessary. A few physicians stop by, and all seem to agree that the heparin will run until tomorrow and Sherlock should be safe for discharge. The case manager is very black and white about the oxygen, which John finds helpful. She explains that, if he qualifies for it, which he should, she will order it and the rental company will deliver it to the flat later this afternoon.

"That's all?"

"Concentrator, instructions, cannula, tubing, monitoring equipment - a pulse oximeter, usually - and a portable tank. Actually, looks like I should be able to have the portable tank delivered right to the hospital so you can go home with it directly from here."

"I really don't want it," Sherlock complains. "Any of it."

The case manager chuckles. "I'm sure. But we are probably kicking you out of here, so you can't stay here any longer."

Sherlock's negativity dissipates for a few seconds, briefly, long enough for him to admit, "That's perhaps the best thing anyone's said to me so far today." Just as quickly, his prickliness is back. "Now that's settled, perhaps you can do something about the terrible quality of the food?" Before John can run interference (again) to mitigate the potential damage, Sherlock snorts. "And the tea. For a British hospital in the heart of London, the tea is an absolute disgrace."

++

John takes a few hours to go home, leaving Sherlock - he hopes - to get a bit of rest while he is gone. He returns with Lydia and Rosie to find that Sherlock is actually in the hallway. A respiratory therapist is with him, an oxygen tank in a wheeled holder next to them, and she is also holding a pulse oximeter while Sherlock pushes his own IV pump slowly down the hallway. They are only a few feet from his room.

"Hey, this is a nice surprise." John is already holding Rosie and they stand silently for a while, Sherlock using most of his effort to stay upright under the watchful eyes of the staff. Eventually, John bends forward to see what Sherlock's oxygen level is. He chooses not to mention that it is only marginal, instead asking, "How's it feel, being on your feet?"

"Like I've just run for my life across a rooftop somewhere." John appreciates the spirit at least, and of course has fond memories of those days. Sherlock has no stamina, no reserve, it's hard to see him this tired.

Indeed, he is winded, leaning heavily on the IV pump in his one hand, his posture even indicating that he is bone-weary, and a nurse asks if he wants a wheelchair to return to his room. The glare, had it not been superseded by concern for Sherlock's breathing, would have been priceless. And feral - but thankfully lacking actual danger to the recipient.

Rosie is more quickly bored than yesterday, to the point where she doesn't even want to pull at Sherlock's oxygen and is not amused at all by the small bag of things Lydia has brought along with them. She is a little fussier than usual, and it isn't long before John and Lydia both decide that the visit will be cut short for the afternoon.

When John kisses her on the forehead as she is ready to leave, he stops, her forehead slightly sweaty. He kisses her again, feels the back of her neck and thinks she is a bit warm and asks Lydia to keep an eye on it.

But it is a sobering idea, that Sherlock might be coming home - to a child who might be coming down with something. He washes his own hands, holds out a handful of waterless hand sanitiser to Sherlock, and hopes that he is wrong.

++

"You should go home," Sherlock snarls as dinnertime grows closer, having refused to order anything. "Just leave already."

"Planning on escaping without someone monitoring you?"

"I fear Mycroft has placed some sort of tracking device on me. Or a hallway camera. And we all know the depths he will sink to to keep me miserable. Suffering."

"Oh yeah, of course. Which is why he has such PTSD from your previous hospitalisa--"

"He charmed you, tricked you, mustered up these false tells." His annoyance, his ire, is palpable. "Just go home."

"I'm not in a rush to leave just yet. You do realise, we both just want you --"

"For god's sake, John. Yes. Yes to the death, of course. All the pat answers, the doctor speak, all the things that just basically say you don't care, that I don't matter."

Sherlock is glaring, and John waits for a moment, listening to what he is really saying. He hopes his face isn't glaring back, although part of him would like to.

More venom bursts out. "It's basically sit down, shut up, be grateful you're not dead --"

"Really?" John interrupts. "Really? Are we going to have the ‘one more miracle, don't be dead, I heard you’ discussion again?" John takes a deep breath, hesitating, knowing that Sherlock is certainly entitled to vent, complain. "Perhaps we can just agree that, just like back then, yes it was an awful time. Just like this is an awful time again."

"Just go home." The flatness, the lack of fight, is sobering - John hates it.

"I don't think I will, just yet." He unwraps one of the candy pieces that is still on Sherlock's bedside table, pops it in his mouth, shrugs when Sherlock shakes his head no at John's silent offer of another one. "Because this is just too much fun."

"You're brutal." Sideways, Sherlock's eyes pin onto John, and he launches another volley, one that is more hurtful. "You're _unkind_."

"Would you like me to see if Molly can stop by? Or Greg?"

"They'd last about thirty seconds with me like this."

_If you're lucky,_ John thinks. "I'll go if you want, and I guess soon. I do think Rosie isn't feeling all that great. And I probably should check in ..."

"You can't spend another night in the recliner. You've been miserable and stiff all day."

John knows this is mostly true, but he has been quite vigilant in keeping his complaints to himself. "I haven't said ..."

Sherlock waves at him with a frustrated hand. "It's all over you. Your frowning and your stretching and your trying to get your neck to relax, tilting your head. It's hateful. Perpetually." Sherlock is on a tear. "You might as well have spoken it out loud, because that's all I see when I look at you, your discomfort." John holds up a hand, wanting to explain, or apologise, or even distract, but Sherlock barely needs a second to catch his breath before unleashing more fussing. "I didn't ask you to stay last night. I didn't ask you to bring in a snack, or your measly presence, or your bloody laptop, that stupid movie ..."

John holds up a hand, says calmly and low, "Can you stop? Just stop it." From the chair next to Sherlock's bed, John takes a deep breath, hoping that even interrupting him may break the spiral. "Look, I know. I'm sorry. This wasn't anything we planned, either of us, and I know it's been very hard for you." He half expects Sherlock to launch another verbal attack, but he is simply sitting, his head tipped back, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched and tight in irritation. "But you've done amazing. You're almost there." Slowing down his words, the pace of what he wants to say in an effort to deescalate the emotions, John scrambles as he tries to decide what's most important to convey. "I have no reason to expect that things won't all come together, for tomorrow, all the pieces that will click, and by this time tomorrow, you should be home."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock doesn't respond verbally to that. Instead he sets his jaw, stares out the window, then reaches up with a finger to rip off the oxygen tubing.

John waits.

Sherlock waits. And then throws the nasal cannula over the siderail onto the floor.

John is calm. After years of unexpected sequelae of living with the nutter, of finding a body hanging nearby or a head in the refrigerator, of all the (wonderful) drama that goes along with Sherlock Holmes, he is nonplussed. He wishes he had a newspaper in his hand to shake nonchalantly, to continue reading it. To ignore what Sherlock was doing, not engage in a minor battle. "Nurse call's next to you in the bed when you decide you need that again."

Carefully and with intentional slowness, Sherlock glances over at John. A few minutes later, the question is unasked.

"You told me to go home. I guess I may as well. All right with you?"

His lips thin out in silent protest.

"I mean, if you're going to throw a little temper tantrum, you don't need me here for that."

"By all means, just go away." Sherlock’s words drip bitterness and John keeps his sigh invisible. "You are certainly not needed here." Coolly, his blue eyes pierce John's, and he fires another low blow. "I don't need you."

_He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it._ Quietly, John gathers his things, his coat, his mobile, and his courage. "I'll see you in the morning, then." Steadily, he looks back into Sherlock's eyes, assessing of course, colour, oxygenation, the need for immediate intervention (and finding none). His oxygen levels are low, probably, but not dangerously so (of this, John is certain), and John decides to let Sherlock try to prove his point. "Text me if you need anything." His words are much more casual than he is feeling, and as he leaves the room he can absolutely feel Sherlock's eyes on the back of his head.

John settles onto the small, two-seated couch tucked in a nearby alcove at the end of the hall, trying to decide how long to wait, how long to linger in the building before actually heading home. He can see into the corridor, and a few minutes later, predictably, he sees the call light over Sherlock's door go on. A nurse enters and comes back out after a few minutes, closing the door behind her. By this point, John is standing in the hallway, and she catches sight of him. With her fingers, she gestures under her nose and then over her ears - replaced the oxygen, she tells him by charades - and she gives an 'okay' sign, her expression pleasant.

He sits back down for a moment, composes a text, hits send.

**Wishing I had kissed you goodbye before I left**

There is an ellipsis. An endless, interminable ellipsis.

John composes another, **Guess it'll wait until morning**

More ellipsis, blinking, blinking, blinking.

Resigned, John knows he doesn't want to leave without it, without at least reaching out a proverbial olive branch, to not part on these terms. Quietly, he takes a few steps down the hall, pushes open Sherlock's door, and enters. The room is quieter, the blinds drawn, the overbed light casting a soft shine upward. Sherlock is staring at the IV pump, wearing the despised oxygen in his nose, and his mobile rests untouched on his stomach.

John's mobile buzzes with a text that Sherlock obviously sent before John has arrived. **We both know you're in the hallway ... it's not too late.**

"Big git," John breathes, sets his bag down on the floor, crossing to the bed and twining his fingers into what he can reach of Sherlock - his hair, his arm, up into the warmth of his neck. Their mouths come together again, lips and tongue and teeth, more impatient than previous kisses, more desperation, more yearning, less inhibitions. The IV tubing dangles but doesn't catch on the blanket or on John as Sherlock's arm pulls and tugs at John's shoulder, drawing him closer. The kiss ends, morphs into a comfortable embrace where only their foreheads, a cheek, and hands are touching. Breathing which had been previously fast, intentional, somewhat frustrated settles into normal even, relaxed, involuntary patterns. Echoes of the irritation and emotion are still there, but much, much improved. "You okay?" John finally asks. When Sherlock nods, he kisses him again, on the mouth, then the tip of his nose, and then a long and drawn out press of John's lips to Sherlock's forehead. "You're okay," John restates, then, "See you in the morning."

"Leave the front door unlocked in case I manage to get away overnight and just come home on my own."

John doesn't take the piss. "Okay. Don't wake me if you do, so, either way, I'll see you in the morning then."

The unspoken words in Sherlock's huffing exhale convey that yes, he'll see him here in the hospital in the morning. At least, John hopes that's what he means anyway.

++

John's mobile dings early, awakening him. His own night has been somewhat restless, wondering, itching for time to pass. Although he is fairly certain Sherlock would have been unable to make it all the way home without John hearing about it, he kind of listens with half an ear for the sounds of the front door. He has only called the nurses desk once, received the report that the room was quiet, Sherlock's telemetry monitor was still transmitting meaning that he had not eloped from the nursing unit, that the night was stable. That was hours ago. Now, it is still mostly dark out, and he squints at the incoming message. John knows that today is the day, that the tiny bit of patience Sherlock's had is fully expended. The game is most definitely on.

**I'm ready. Let's go.**

**Did the doctor see you yet?**

**No. But that's irrelevant. Unnecessary.**

**Actually it isn't. You need discharge orders. Prescriptions. Instructions.**

**Get in here and pick me up. I'm done waiting.**

**That's not how it works.**

**I'm discontinuing this IV.**

**Don't.**

**Give me one good reason why I shouldn't.**

John's mind scrambles to come up with something that will work. Something that might appropriately motivate his mad flatmate.

**For the reward.**

**What reward?**

**Because I'll reward you for keeping it in until the doctor discontinues it.**

**With what?**

**It's a surprise.**

**Your surprise is probably terrible. **

**Probably. I'm okay with terrible.**

**I'm not. Give me a hint.**

John considers where he is now laying: Sherlock's bed. He has already discussed with Lydia that he would like her to stay for one more night after Sherlock comes home, just until they are completely settled, to attend to Rosie, in case the first night home is bad. **Your hint is that something has moved in the flat.**

**I hate when you rearrange things without me.**

**That's because you like to be in control**

**Did you move my chair? If you did, move it back. I want it right where I left it.**

**Which was under one of your shirts and your slippers just left out. Biscuit crumbs. Should I keep going?**

**Don't move my things.**

**Shall I throw your stuff around again then, back into the disarray where I found it?**

**John. It's not my fault you thrive on order. I don't ask you to clean up after me.**

**You'll like this. At least I hope. I certainly do.**

**What do you mean by that?**

**You do know that surprise means something that you don't know, right? Unexpected.**

**There will be hell to pay if this surprise is indeed terrible.**

**You'll like it.**

**All right. I'll give the doctor until 0900. Then this IV is coming out no matter what.**

**Make it noon. I'll be there by then. These things, truly, they take time to arrange.**

++

The previous evening, after Sherlock's meltdown of sorts and John's return to his room to say a more proper goodbye with his lips, his touch, John leaves the hospital with the distinct knowledge that he will be so relieved not to have Sherlock here any longer, that he is medically endorsed as well enough to be home. With him, and Rosie, as he continues to recover.

Lydia's text arrives as John leaves the hospital after Sherlock's unhappiness, after their kisses. He can still feel the tingle from where Sherlock's hand had been on the back of his shoulder, the faint reminder of where their lips had touched, the ultimate tenderness of their farewell as opposed to the earlier fussing, the understandable grumpiness, the frustration.

**Rosie cut another tooth - a molar - and seems to be feeling better. Thought'd you want to know.**

**That's a relief. I'm on my way home, want me to pick up anything?**

**No, dinner's here waiting for you. Rosie's in the bath.**

The notion that they should all be together hits hard then, and John feels the faint glimmer that the end is truly closer than it has ever been.

++

Sherlock takes a look around and a deep breath, which ends in a painful cough and a snarl of frustration. John has already arranged with Lydia to have Rosie out of the flat, just for the brief time as Sherlock arrives, tries to settle in, just to have slightly less stimulation, less chaos, less competition for John’s attention. For a brief moment, they stand still.

"Chair? Or do you want to go lie down for a little?"

He says nothing, and John can see that he is working to breathe, the energy expended on not only hospital discharge but then the bloody, endless steps to get into their flat. He resists the urge to turn up the liter flow on the oxygen, knowing that Sherlock will compensate as he rests.

When Sherlock is still and quiet, probably overwhelmed on sensation and exhaustion, John decides for them both. "Chair." It only takes a moment to get him seated, comfortable, the oxygen tank in the sturdy canvas holder, slung off his shoulder to rest on the floor, and John consults his mobile for the time. "I'll toss you the pulse ox in about five minutes, let you recover, and we'll go from there." Sherlock's eye-roll is almost audible. "You will not fight me on this." It is the Captain Watson voice, and, retired or not, John's threat will not be taken lightly.

For a few minutes, John moves some bags out of the way, hospital supplies and paperwork. He switches Sherlock's oxygen source from the tank to the concentrator, at which Sherlock has only glanced at once with a considerable amount of venom before closing his eyes to the whole thing. John is okay with the display of annoyance and smiles when his back is turned as he flips the kettle on, prepares two mugs.

The fact that there are two mugs on the counter catches him just a little at first. Finally. Back together, where they belong, side-by-side. He takes a steadying breath, knowing there is too much to do before letting himself really revel in the concept, before letting the sentiment kind of envelop him.

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock is unmoved, and John carries one of the bags back to the bedroom, digging out Sherlock's seldom-worn slippers. Again, he doesn't specifically offer Sherlock a choice, a decision, but exchanges his shoes for slippers, makes tea for them both, and returns. Without leaving room for argument, for refusal, John slides their portable oxygen sensor over Sherlock's index finger, finds the level acceptable, removes it.

There are a few moments of silence before Sherlock's eyes finally open to find where John is seated, the mug of tea, the room. He inhales, taking it all in, and John watches him carefully as his shoulders ultimately relax, some of the tension leaving, just from his new surroundings.

"Nice to see you feeling better. And home." John doesn't belabour the point, sips at his tea. But he absolutely sees Sherlock blink rapidly a few times, his eyes quite moist. There is the faintest beginnings of a sweet and satisfied smile on Sherlock's lower lip.

The tea cools.

++

"So do you have any questions?" It is Dr. Benson standing at the bedside, having reviewed the discharge instructions.

John waits for Sherlock as if preparing for trouble. He’s been nothing but impatient and cranky, laser focused on leaving the building as soon as possible. "Okay to resume sexual relations?" he finally asks, knowing that it is John's response that he wants. Which he gets, as John brings a hand up to his face, rubbing, blinking, at least in a small way trying to hide behind.

It doesn't faze the doctor at all. "Long as you're not too winded. Take it easy at first." The stack of paperwork and instructions are all inside a folder on the table. "I guess you're free to leave then. The nurses'll help get things ordered, taken care of. The IV --" His words trail off as he sees what Sherlock is doing, which is ripping the IV out quick as a flash, the tegaderm being quickly peeled away and clinging to Sherlock's arm a brief moment before it gives way, the catheter sliding out.

"Jesus Christ," John says quickly, urgently reaching for a piece of gauze from the table "Hello, blood thinners, did you forget?" he complains as he presses the gauze over the rather readily flowing site, the trickle of blood deep red that touches the sheet before John can get to it.

Dr. Benton chuckles, and John knows it is the _gosh I'll be right glad to get rid of you_. "All right, then. Hope that doesn't bruise too much," he says. "My condolences, John. Having to deal with this at home? Good luck." He chuckles as he sympathetically pats John on the shoulder, still shaking his head as he exits the room.

"Out! Let's go, now."

John looks up from where he is pressing the gauze still on Sherlock's arm. "Seriously? Thought you'd like to ... oh, I don't know, get dressed first?"

"Not particularly. I just want out. Out. Out!" He shifts as if he is about to stand up.

"Sit, stay," John growls, then realises, adds, "Good boy," as a snarky addendum. "Truly, just settle. Once this stops bleeding, ta very much for that, by the way, I'll help you get dressed. Brought you an actual change of clothes. And everyone goes out by wheelchair."

"I want to walk."

This from the man who just yesterday was winded in the hallway, but John doesn't remind him. "No." John folds the gauze again, presses hard, with his thumb this time, trying to get more comfortable. "Next demand?"

"A cigarette."

"That's it, I'm moving this, you can just bleed to death then," and he does actually pull away mostly because it is unexpected and Sherlock in particular lets out a surprised squeak as the blood begins to trickle again.

"Well you asked," Sherlock snipes back at him. "Perhaps you should give me a list of things I'm allowed to ask for." He is embodying a defiant toddler stomping his feet, and impatiently he whinges, "Home. Or is that apparently too much to ask?"

Both of them watch the slow drip of blood, and then John gives in and reneges with a fresh gauze, his thumb pressing firmly and his hand wrapped around Sherlock's forearm.

Eventually, he is dressed and seated unhappily in a transport wheelchair. There is an oxygen tank in the metal cage on the back that belongs to the hospital, and across John's shoulder is another tank in a velcroed holder that is a rental for their use. A volunteer is holding the few bags of belongings that they are taking with them. Even the simple, assisted tasks of getting dressed, which John helps with, have left Sherlock breathless, and John makes them wait a few minutes before pushing Sherlock from the room to make sure that his breathing is at least settling in the right direction.

"Let's go," Sherlock's demand is quiet, forceful.

"Just a bloody minute. Not until you're a bit more relaxed, less struggling."

"I'm not struggling, but you will be if you don't --"

"Shh. Getting upset and fussing at me doesn't help. Just shut up and breathe, yeah?" John's words are spoken bluntly, carefully, intentionally.

Sherlock narrows an eye. "I swear, Watson, I've about had en--"

"Stop. If you want to go home, these are the rules. I am not assuming responsibility for this behaviour, for your well-being if you're in this much distress." A raised eyebrow lets Sherlock know that John is full stop not kidding. "Just breathe, relax your shoulders, think about ..."

"Do not tell me to sniff the bloody flowers and blow out the _bloody candles_."

"Then sniff the corpse and blow off the cigarette ash, I don't care. Whatever gets you to slow down a little. The sooner you comply, the quicker we can leave."

The parade to the door consists of Sherlock seated, a nurse pushing the chair, John following close behind, the volunteer with their bags, and the pre-arranged car is waiting at the kerb. The driver loads the bags into the boot, the volunteer disappears. John switches over the oxygen cannula to their own tank, and the nurse begins to help with the footrests, the wheelchair, with helping Sherlock stand up.

John nods and kind of brushes her kindly away. "Thanks, you've been great, but I think we're good." She hesitates. "I've got it from here, thanks."

John tucks Sherlock into the nearest seat in the back of the car, stows the oxygen tank on the floor at his feet, and waves at the nurse as he rounds the outside of the car to join Sherlock in the back seat. The door closes, the driver slides behind the wheel, starts the car.

"Are you ready, Dr. Watson? Mr. Holmes?" the driver asks politely over his shoulder.

The men in the back seat exchange small smiles, one a bit more wavery than the other. It is John who finds his voice first. "Yes, thanks. 221B Baker Street please."

++

Sherlock barely stirs when Rosie comes home, and after a bit she is prepared for her afternoon nap. She insists, and is actually quite adamant, that it is Sherlock's lap she wants to snuggle in, that Sherlock is to be the one to read to her. By this time, he is mostly awake and more agreeable than he's been in two weeks. And so John sits back while she cuddles up with Sherlock, her book in one hand and her stuffed blue bunny in the other. He reads carefully and slowly, his breathing even as she is nestled in the space between his hip and his arm, in the warm place under his chin. At the end of the book, he stops, turns his nose into her hair, inhales slowly.

He smiles, and the smile sticks on his face even as John scoops up Rosie and carts her up the stairs to her cot. He returns to the sitting room, where Lydia indicates that she is heading out to pick up Sherlock's prescriptions from the chemists. John feels the rightness of finally having Sherlock home, the sense that order and equilibrium has been restored in their lives. He flips on the baby monitor for the upstairs bedroom, savouring the peace, the quiet, the stability. He spreads a thin blanket up to Sherlock's chin and in short order has settled into his own chair and fallen asleep himself.

++

Discharge Instructions for patient: Sherlock Holmes

Chief Complaint/Admission diagnosis: 

syncope

syncope with prehospital collapse, rule out massive pulmonary embolism

Discharge diagnoses:

syncope,

deep vein thrombosis, deep vein thrombosis with complications,

pulmonary embolism; massive saddle pulmonary embolism with cardiovascular compromise, cardiovascular collapse, and right ventricular strain,

suction thrombectomy; catheter-directed thrombolytic therapy,

respiratory failure; ventilator dependent respiratory failure,

arterial thrombosis of unknown origin to left brachial artery, arterial occlusive disease,

arterial occlusion, severe, with alteration in tissue perfusion and loss of arterial blood flow

embolectomy, left brachial artery, partial; vascular stent placement, left brachial artery, performed in interventional radiology,

endoscopic cardiovascular ultrasound, transoesophageal echocardiogram with agitated saline transthoracic contrast echocardiography,

patent foramen ovale, suspected; patent foramen ovale, confirmed,

transient ischaemic attack; TIA with stat CAT scan of the head, normal; symptoms fully resolved,

occluder closure of patent foramen ovale via percutaneous access left femoral vein,

newly prescribed direct oral anticoagulant therapy - apixoban, clopidogrel, in combination with aspirin therapy

oxygen dependent pulmonary hypertension, rule out chronic thromboembolic pulmonary hypertension (CTEPH)

hypoxaemia, oxygen dependent status post pulmonary embolism with complications - long term; discharged on oxygen therapy as described.

Diet restrictions: none

Activity restrictions: Rest. No strenuous exercise that would result in heavy breathing for 6-8 weeks, no lifting greater than 5 kg for 5 days, no driving until cleared by your physician, no hot tub x 7 days, may return to work in 2 weeks provided you have been cleared by your treating physician to do so. 

Smoking cessation: completely and permanently, no further smoking ever in your lifetime. Transdermal nicotine patch may be used, one patch per day following the steps exactly as prescribed by your physician. If further cessation modalities are needed, please discuss this at your first follow-up appointment.

Congratulations on quitting.

Home Visitors schedule: Your first visit is scheduled for your first day home following discharge. Subsequent visits to be determined.

Oxygen saturation monitoring:

Check your levels at rest.

If your oximetry readings at rest are less than 91, or if you are feeling winded, use the incentive spirometer and check again. If the readings are still less than 91, try wearing oxygen via nasal cannula (prescription for oxygen condenser attached) at the lowest flow rate in liters per minute to obtain resting saturations greater than 92%.

Oxygen saturations with activity are expected to be somewhat lower. Monitoring of oxygen levels with activity should be based on degree of shortness of breath. With activity, try to maintain oxygen saturations greater than 88%. Once you have stopped the activity, your levels should return to more adequate levels within several minutes. Notify your physician for shortness of breath that is not relieved with rest and application of oxygen, or if you are consistently requiring oxygen flow rates higher than 4 liters per minute for longer than several hours.

Following pulmonary embolism, many patients experience some intermittent residual shortness of breath and activity intolerance for a few weeks to months afterward. This is expected and will most likely resolve over time.

Follow up testing: 

Repeat echocardiogram, transthoracic, in 6 months; sooner if symptoms develop

Repeat chest xray in 2-3 months

Lab work: renal function, blood chemistries, complete blood cell count in 2-4 weeks

Medications: as directed, see attached medication list and new prescriptions (attached); aspirin daily, clopidogrel x 3 months, apixoban as directed, minimum recommendation is 12 months or as determined by your physician after discharge.

Dental work: If you need dental procedures (beyond cleaning) within 6 months from placement of the PFO closure device, it is recommended that you take a course of antibiotic therapy for 3 days prior to the procedure.

Opthalmologist evaluation: Due to the nature of small clots that can be clinically asymptomatic, it is recommended that you take special care to have your retinas examined by a professional at your earliest convenience.

If you develop symptoms that recur such as chest pain, shortness of breath, collapse, bleeding or oozing from procedure sites, you may come to the A&E or call 999 if you cannot reach your regular physician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the frustration level, the impatience, waiting for progress, longing for something (and someone) that is (momentarily) out of your reach.
> 
> ++
> 
> Discharge is actually kind of a high-risk time. The amount of education that goes on in a typical discharge is overwhelming, with medications, precautions, instructions and patients and caregivers alike are worried about the changes ahead. Even for these two, a well-educated physician and a consulting detective, there is a lot to manage.
> 
> ++
> 
> Sniff the flowers, blow out the candles is a prompt for many patients with respiratory distress that helps them focus, take slower and deeper breaths. It does often relieve some of their symptoms temporarily. Variations abound: sniff the soup, blow on the soup. I don't think this version, the sniff the corpse one, will catch on.
> 
> ++
> 
> Ah home. I tried to get them down the hallway, but Sherlock was too tired. And John was too relieved.
> 
> ++
> 
> Feedback greatly appreciated if you're inclined. Please let me know if something is unclear. Thanks EVER SO MUCH for following along. Today is Thanksgiving Day in the US. I am grateful ;-)


	15. Endings, Beginnings, and a Hope-filled Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene opens with Baker Street, where they have just arrived after Sherlock's convoluted and stressful hospitalisation. He had just enough energy to get to his chair.
> 
> ++
> 
> The chapter opens and ends in the present with some flashbacks and non-linear reflection moments interspersed.
> 
> ++
> 
> I had NO intention of such a long gap between chapters. Recap: Sherlock and John were on the cusp of a changed dynamic to their relationship (read: physical as well as emotional) when Sherlock collapsed with a massive pulmonary embolism. It was discovered that he had a patent foramen ovale (PFO, or hole between the top chambers of his heart). He is on the road to recovery after a rather intense hospitalization.
> 
> Apologies and blessings to anyone still out there. And still reading.
> 
> ++
> 
> For a few panicky moments I couldn't get these guys ... *ahem* ... where I wanted them and thought this would be dropped to a T rating. Which is fine, by the way. [Yes I love quoting that even in RL and find it amusing]. But they manage it (several times), and the M stays.

It happened sometimes when they were at a gathering somewhere, in a crowded area, a roomful of people, that kind of intuition as to where the other person was, some sort of subliminal, extra-sensory knowledge, that John could look up at the very same time that Sherlock also raised his head, seeking, searching.

They never searched too hard - they simply knew.

It happened at Barts, when they were gathering information, such as once the previous week at the morgue, John reading the bulletin board near the doorway, and the back of his neck prickled. When he glanced over at Sherlock, he was not surprised to find him watching. Their eyes met, the smallest of exchanged smiles, a wink perhaps, and each turned back to what they had been working on and looking at. It was a means of connection, of togetherness, of that query, are you paying attention, that was answered just as easily, of course I am.

_Are you still paying attention? Of course I still am._

There were times it snuck up on them, at one of the low-risk scenes they were investigating with Greg, the realisation of one of the germane pieces of evidence, or when someone else made a comment that triggered something, a memory, a reminder. On some occasions, all it would take was something ordinary, but they would look at each other, glimpse the other's expression, and it almost made conversation unnecessary. It happened when they passed, or heard about UCL Hospital - _do you remember, of course I remember_ \- or at home watching the news or a little show with Rosie - _gee that reminds me_, and a _oh yes, me too._

Many times during the course of their busy week, John's locum shifts at the surgery, or Rosie's activities or school outings, that a text message was sent and the first reply was, 'I was just about to text you.'

They absolutely had an affinity for each other. There was a connectedness beyond the physical and the emotional. Greg Lestrade may have summed it up best, when, after one rather harrowing case and the way they sought each other out: "It's like you guys have this invisible string between you." Upon hearing it, they'd met and locked eyes again, swapped faint smiles, and they'd been peripherally aware of Greg throwing his hands up. "See what I mean? Connected." Both had looked at Greg with intrigue, with interest. Their eyes almost issued a challenge, a dare, to comment. He'd shuddered. "It's almost as if you're ..." He'd left the end of the sentence unfinished as the word hit him square between the eyes. He'd been about to say_ married._

++

"Come on you," John says quietly, to Sherlock who is still sprawled out on his chair. The afternoon and evening have been on a much lower-key pace than the hospital. But unfortunately, John finds that Sherlock is just as ornery. And much less tolerant. "You'll be more comfortable laying down."

"I am laying down."

"No you're not." Sherlock's terrible posture not-withstanding, he is slouching, his neck against the chair back, his spine curved outward, legs stretched out, back at an awkward angle. "Bed."

"I said no."

"You can't sleep in the chair like this."

"Managing just fine."

"No. You woke up enough to say goodnight to Rosie, take your meds," John points this out specifically, because shockingly, Sherlock hadn't fussed about it. He hadn't complained, refused, spit them out, or tried to play let's make a deal with that, and whatever positive reinforcement John could offer and affirm, he would take, "but that's been about it." Sherlock's eyes close again. "Time to move." He doesn't say, keep blood flowing, prevent further clot, stimulate your vasculature, protect your recovery. But god, he wants to.

"For gods sake, John. Just leave me alone."

"Soon as you're in bed." John moves Sherlock's feet from the coffee table, takes off the blanket, and only waits a few seconds before reaching down to grasp Sherlock under one arm to begin to ease him from the chair.

Sherlock becomes dead weight. A dead, resisting weight. "I said no."

"And I said bed." He feels like he is dealing with Rosie at her worst and is grateful that for now anyway, Rosie is only a fraction of Sherlock's weight and can be picked up and relocated when necessary. And she is still occasionally motivated by the smallest amount of fear or parental respect. "You can visit the loo on the way by. Do your teeth. Pee. Whatever you want to do with your hair." Although Sherlock's eyes stay closed, John can tell that he is listening. "You know, like brush it or something."

Sherlock's eyes open, one narrows at his hair jibe. "Did you bring that little basin home? I could do my teeth right here." John knows the little kidney shaped basin is somewhere but he is not about to concede the battle.

"And waste a perfectly good bathroom that is conveniently located a few feet from your bedroom? Perish the thought."

"No."

"What are you, two?" John braces one foot in front of Sherlock's and then leverages his weight while supporting Sherlock's arms and uses momentum to gently but firmly ease him to his feet. "I know you're exhausted, but come on," he adds gently. "I'll help."

His legs nearly buckle and would have failed to hold him upright if John hadn't a strong grip on him. Muscles, weak from underuse, tremble a bit as Sherlock finally does find his stance. His next words are quite whinging, "I'm so tired." There is less fight - which John finds a mixed blessing.

"I know." There is a softness, a sadness, in John's tone. "Bed'll feel good."

Sherlock's breathing is exertional by the time they finish a brief stop in the loo - teeth, toilet, hot flannel for his face - and John works a bit of magic when Sherlock almost trips on his oxygen tubing trying to get into bed. Both are grateful for the extra-long tubing that attaches to the concentrator that John has relocated to a more central location in the hallway. The pillow barely crinkles under Sherlock's head, the curls settling lightly on the pale linen and over his pale face.

John settles the pulse oximeter on his finger, thinking that at very best it will cue him when Sherlock is awake or if the number is too low. He smooths the duvet over Sherlock as he tries to move Sherlock's floppy limbs into a more comfortable position than the exhausted fall-wherever-they-land when Sherlock collapsed into the bed, and he shuffles back out to the sitting room.

A few minutes go by as he just stands, feeling a little bit lost, taking in the fact that they are home, that tomorrow there will be a home visitor to check on them, that he will no longer have to make the trek to the hospital. Nothing much seems to demand immediate attention, and he knows Rosie and Lydia are upstairs so there's no reason to turn on the monitor.

For a few moments, he vacillates with atypical indecision between rooms, wanting to check continually on Sherlock and feeling the weight of responsibility, the exhaustion of the past week. The past days, doctors and nurses have seen to Sherlock, keeping him safe, providing meds, monitoring him, assuring that he had opportunity to rest, recover, heal. Now, all of that falls to John, and it is sobering to consider that Sherlock depends on him. He knows he is exhausted and needs to rest himself. So in the end, he curls up on the couch only to have his mind immediately engage. Although his body is fatigued, his mind decides that now is a perfect time to whirl through the events of the week, the near miss, the brush with ... almost losing him. He vividly recalls it all - from the pallor of his face in the ICU that reflected the soft green glow of the cardiac monitor to the weariness and weakness of his entire body out on the acute care areas. The worry, the anxiety, the intensity of the physical experiences, prey heavily on his mind.

The couch, he realises, is not going to work. Even with the pulse oximeter on him that will alarm if necessary, it isn't enough. At least when he was home by himself with Sherlock across town in the hospital, he knew the nurses were keeping an eye on him both physically and through telemetry. But this is ... uncomfortable. He needs to be close, much closer, keeping a watchful eye on him, and, on quiet feet, leaves the sitting room. His heart pounds as he reaches the doorway, takes a look in.

Sherlock is blissfully asleep, hasn't moved a trace. Long eyelashes are illuminated by the faintest light from behind the curtains. Sherlock's cheeks are still angled, pale, a bit sunken. His mouth is just the faintest bit slack under the oxygen still in place. The covers are up near his chin as he lies curled on his side. Soft light and soft shadows wrap around his head, his hand resting next to the pillow. The duvet moves very slightly up, then faintly down again along with Sherlock's rib cage as it expands, relaxes as he breathes. His hip, his legs, are completely unmoving. The backlit screen that reads out on the pulse oximeter further assures him that Sherlock is okay. That he is stable.

Relief surges through John's own chest as he sees that he is okay, that he is not in distress, that he is safe.

_Safe._

Such an important state of being.

John opts not to overthink it and tells himself he doesn't mind, that it's all fine, as he tucks his weary body on the far side of the bed. The duvet, mattress, pillow - all comfortable enough. But the fact that Sherlock is nearby, breathing, living, and warm - and most importantly, only a few feet away, is what finally allows John to exhale, enough to let John's body finally relax.

Very aware of the presence, the heartbeat, the breathing a few feet away, he closes his eyes.

++

He opens his eyes.

Sherlock is nowhere in sight. The creak of the house, the sound of the wind outside, the unfamiliarity remind John that he isn't in London. That they aren't in London.

They are taking a handful of days, a holiday just for themselves, in a borrowed cabin in the outskirts north of Ipswich. A vague connection from one of John's military days, a no-strings offer, a surprisingly posh home despite the rustic location.

It has been a full year since Sherlock's terrible medical adventure, his hospitalisation, his lengthy recuperation, a setback or two along the way.

Rosie is at home, and Molly - with some carefully orchestrated help from their friends and family along the way - is spending the week with her. With Molly's assistance, she calls John on his mobile every night. "Pa, I went to the park, Pa, we ..."

She talks with Sherlock too. She calls him "_Pere_." John and Sherlock are still not speaking to Mycroft for suggesting that French derivative of father as his nickname and then going to monumental efforts at having it stick. Truthfully, John finds it cute but needs the solidarity with Sherlock, so he mostly keeps silent and lets Sherlock do the actual fussing.

And mostly, the role is rather true. They are indeed a family. Now moreso than ever. Idly, his thumb reaches up, checking, feeling the warm, smooth metal. It's real.

Rolling slightly onto his back, he stretches, pushing his feet down into the crevice at the end of the bed, his hands up under the pillow. It is a marvelous feeling to wake up slowly, and he takes a few minutes before deciding he should go see what Sherlock is up to this morning.

The kitchen is empty as well, but Sherlock has left evidence behind. A plate with toast crumbs and a smear of orange marmalade is in the sink next to a half-drunk cup of tea. The kettle sits still slightly warm, and an empty mug, box of PG Tips, spoon, and sugar bowl wait next to it. John smiles when he catches a glimpse of a hastily scrawled note next to it: _John, gone exploring, be back soon, found an old map that indicates there might be an abandoned cemetery nearby, thought I'd go look at headstones there._ A large scribbled S follows that.

John checks the weather outside while the kettle re-boils, and the day is coolish at the moment but on the rise, and he sits down in the stillness, in the quiet, really appreciating where they are juxtaposed to where they were - and the milestones along the way.

Oh, the many milestones.

++

Milestones like finding and then "freeing" Lydia, the au pair Mycroft had located to help with all things Rosie - a godsend, who ended up staying one additional night just for peace of mind and to help Rosie transition to Sherlock being home again.

The home health visitor - whose first visit was his first full day home, a waste of time really on some levels, but the nurse did help reinforce John's message of mobility as tolerated, of wellness through nutrition, medication compliance, of social support.

The oxygen concentrator - good grief, did Sherlock hate that thing, loathed it to the very core. He hated the painfully slow wean to room air during the day, then eventually overnight. Although Sherlock wanted it removed immediately - meaning right this bloody minute, John - John insisted on keeping it another forty-eight hours just to make sure he was in the clear. With it went the portable tank and the pulse oximeter. But once it was out of the flat, the accomplishment of this milestone was quite a relief.

John had greatly missed the pulse oximeter monitoring capabilities in the beginning, just for peace of mind, and he almost bought one outright but then worried that it would send the wrong message to Sherlock.

Molly, Greg, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson - all of whom stopped round to visit at intervals, even continuing to come back again despite Sherlock's atrocious treatment of them from time to time. Although even once he was beginning to recover, he still fussed interminably at his brother. Back to baseline, then, he and Mycroft.

Another milestone was that first morning, their first morning home, when Sherlock awakened somewhat surprised to find John only a pillow's length away, in the bed with him.

++

"I don't recall inviting you here."

The clearly spoken words pierce John's slumber, which has been terribly fitful at first, with him only sliding into REM sleep toward dawn only to be interrupted by Sherlock's somewhat offended, gravelly voice. John bites back the first several retorts that come to mind, takes a few sharp looks at Sherlock - skin pink, breathing easily, oxygen still on his face - another miracle, John knows - and arches his back as he stretches his sore, stiff muscles. "Well, next time you decide to ... almost cash it all in, can you give me some notice so I can make arrangements for Rosie? And find someone else to worry about you."

"You're invading."

"I'll be glad to leave you alone, but ... I find that I can't."

"I know."

"And best I can recall, Rosie's room is rather full at the moment." There is a single nod. He sees Sherlock make a face and decide he's frustrated, that he's had enough already, just about ninety seconds into John's day, thank you very much, and turn away. "Sorry to be a bloody inconvenience for you." John's words, deliberate, are followed by a snicker of disbelief, as if to ask, _really?_ and, _are you sure you want to alienate me already?_

"I know. I just ... little surprised is all."

"How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted. Good thing the day's nearly over, yeah?" There is more he wants to say, but the negativity makes it unnecessary, and he snorts a bit as he tries to sit up. "About time to go back to bed I reckon."

"Here, you're okay, it's expected." John's body, fortunately, has an almost instant on switch, and he adds, "I'll help you." He shifts and makes a long crawl across the foot of the bed, helps Sherlock sit up.

It is a sobering realisation that the mere act of moving, of sitting up is strenuous, and Sherlock's chest heaves a bit as he struggles to breathe for a few seconds after becoming upright. Sherlock manages to get into a tripod position, bracketing his chest by pushing up on his hands resting on his knees, in order to maximise chest expansion.

They meet eyes, John's concerned and Sherlock's a bit agitated, but neither speaks about it. "Maybe some tea in the kitchen?"

"Good idea, since I can't catch my breath already just from the mere stress of _bloody sitting up_, might as well die with a cup of tea in my hand. Or I could just choke on it, or drown myself --"

John sees, senses, knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Sherlock is ... _furious_ underneath it all. But it is buried underneath his many layers leaving him subdued in his exhaustion and ready to spiral, to sink lower than low - understandably on all counts - so he opts to interject. "I think the word you're looking for is aspirate."

Sherlock stares hard and emotionless at John before coolly declaring, "Piss off." The glare is expected - and welcome. John suppresses his grin, maintains his focus. _Hello, fighter._

His very next thought, _game on._ "No, _you_ piss off." John rolls his own eyes at his own terribly lame, unoriginal banter, presses onward before Sherlock retaliates. "Stop. So, there's a reason you know. Blood pools dependent as you're laying," John stands up in front of him, trying to be casual, truthful, and explanatory. "So changing position'll take a few minutes for your lungs to figure it out. Equilibrate, or compensate, as things shift around in your chest." Questioning pale eyes seek John's face, probably looking to determine the extent - and the truth - of how much John is disclosing, and John can't help the smile. "Give yourself a minute, it'll get better, and some light activity should help," he says quietly, his encouragement stretching into stillness, waiting, watching, the togetherness helpful. Sherlock's breathing does actually settle down, become a little easier and more relaxed. John is struck again:_ they are home_. And it is good. "Rosie's not up yet, best I can tell. We can have a few minutes of peace." It appeals to John, just the two of them in the morning, back to at least a whisper and an echo of their routine. "Tea."

A faint nod, and Sherlock shifts slightly as he sits, uncomfortable still. "Is Lydia leaving today?" Sherlock's prickliness is a little lower.

"Probably, if that's okay with you." Frowning in uncertainty, John adds, "We can make the decision later, together. She's available if we need her another night, or longer, I'm sure."

A cloud passes behind Sherlock's eyes, stays there, and John knows that Sherlock has something to say so he waits.

Inhale, tight supraclavicular excursions. Exhale, intercostal tightness. Again in short order, and John knows that breathing like that is exhausting and often a little claustrophobic. "I was worried," and he clears his throat. "Scared, when I woke up. Before I knew you were right there next to me."

John embraces their confession mode, and with a kind smile, he nods first then says, his own voice low and gentle, "I tried to rest on the couch after you were in bed. Lasted about a minute before joining you here."

"So, even after she leaves ...?" he doesn't finish the end of the question. _Will you stay?_ His glance takes in the bedroom, the other side of the bed, a shrug of his shoulders. It's affirming, John knows, their relationship the type where a lot of communication can happen in a look, a gesture, an expression. It's ... intimate.

"Long as it's okay with you." Sherlock looks away as if he is embarrassed. John feels that too, opts to be the instigator. "I would feel better. Much better." The awkwardness is ... disconcerting. "At least for a little ..."

"I don't ... I didn't ... I want ..." Uncharacteristically tongue-tied, Sherlock growls low in his throat.

"I know. While we're tip-toeing around what we're trying not to talk about, there's no rush. So, no expectations. Just ... company." _For now._

"You don't want ...?"

John almost trips over himself trying to answer quickly. "Oh no. I most definitely _want_. But ... really, we need to go slow. For ... well, your health I suppose, although there are ... other considerations."

"I hate this." The honesty is raw and John can feel the sting of it behind his eyes, in his chest. Sherlock's words absolutely drip with pain.

"I know."

_"Fragility is hateful."_

"It's not forever." Cautiously, their eyes continue to hold, anxiety from the one and support from the other. John's hand finds Sherlock's jaw, slides in, and his eyes flick to Sherlock's mouth. He wants to swoop in, kiss him, let their lips meet and reassure and comfort. Instead, he lets out a small chuckle of nervous realisation. "Should probably brush first."

Sherlock's eyes crinkle just slightly, a small snort of laughter, of openness. "Please, yes. First implies that more will follow."

"Oh yes."

"And that it'll be more pleasant."

"For both of us."

There is more energy than either of them expected as Sherlock manoeuvres to the loo, but by the time he is seated at the kitchen table, he is profoundly winded again and miserable to the core. He fusses at John's tea, his bare feet, John's bare feet, the hardness of the kitchen chair he's sitting in, the way the oxygen smells, and the soreness of his ears from where the tubing rests. He complains that talking is exhausting but doesn't stop doing it. He hears Mrs. Hudson beneath their flat beginning her own day and he complains that she is making noise and then complains that she hasn't come up yet to help them. When he exhausts the things to be annoyed about in the flat, he changes to London, the weather, his brother, UCL Hospital, the peril of the rainforests, and the noise of their street interrupting his first morning home. And then they hear the sound of Lydia and Rosie upstairs moving about, and Sherlock grows brooding instead. John gets it, understanding that there is a stranger in the house with them, and that he doesn't exactly feel free to express himself.

Rosie, however, is thrilled that they are home, all of them together, and while Sherlock does finally sip at his tea and play with a triangle of buttered toast with marmalade John fixes him, they discuss what the day holds. Rather, John discusses and Sherlock listens. Or pretends to. A home health visitor is confirmed for lunchtime, and Lydia offers to occupy Rosie until naptime with a few outside opportunities - the library, a walk, the park - to give them time on their own.

"That sounds okay to me. Sherlock?" John asks. He has joined them at the table and is holding Rosie. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock only shrugs. "And provided things are okay this morning, I think we'll be good on our own tonight." John feels more than a little nervous himself, given how ill Sherlock had been, but he is also anxious to have the flat back to just themselves again.

++

The milestone of their first day home passes with relative ease, their first night on their own is another milestone that ended up being quite memorable, but in a surprising sort of way and not necessarily for the reason either of them would have hoped.

The home health visitor had been thorough and positive that Sherlock was making progress, and Sherlock bristles when he hears her affirm that recovery is going to take quite some time, that he should be patient. John runs interference before Sherlock can speak irretrievably hurtful things. Mrs. Hudson brings them dinner, and Lydia stands by while John tucks Rosie into bed then she joins the men for a short time in front of the telly. Sherlock has warmed up to her quite a bit over the day, and John thinks that her leaving will be bittersweet. He knows it is good that they don't need the support any longer, but it is less stressful to have another (responsible) adult nearby. Her few belongings are already waiting in a case by the door.

"If you're sure," she says one final time before standing up, preparing to leave. Upstairs, Rosie is absolutely silent in the monitor.

John thanks her profusely from both of them, then smiles affirmatively and she returns it, wishing them both the best. The flat is still and heavy after the door closes, and he takes Sherlock's hand. "Nervous?"

"What, that you're going to take advantage of me, ravish me now that we're unsupervised?"

"Um, no." John can't stop the chuckle at his very atypically forward statement. "But I confess I like what you're thinking about." Sherlock's hand is warm in his own. "No, I meant without extra help. On our own, so to speak."

"Nervous, no. But you obviously are, or you wouldn't have mentioned it." With an exaggerated eye roll, Sherlock sighs. "I am ridiculously tired, might as well say goodnight. I can read or something in bed."

"Want me to join you?"

"Whatever you want, John." The words come across cool. Flat.

"Why are you annoyed?"

"I'm not," he snarks, hissing his response.

"Clearly," John mutters, drily. "Go to bed, then, if you want. I'll be along." He figures that Sherlock might need a few moments on his own, that even though he denies it, he might be restless. "Want help?"

He doesn't answer, but hoists himself to his feet, shuffles away. The irritation is as clearly visible on his back as if there was a neon sign hanging and flashing from it.

John watches the telly with half an eye, thumbs through his mobile, picks at a stray thread on the throw pillow. It doesn't take long before he hears a sharp curse from down the hallway. Ensuring that he is not smiling, not even a little, John goes after Sherlock, finds him tugging at the oxygen tubing, which is caught on the bottom edge of the door into the bedroom.

He flings it off his face. "No more. Enough."

"Okay. We can try it without --"

"There is no 'we.' This is me, not you."

"You can try it without --"

"Shut up, John."

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing."

"Perfect, then. I can manage that." Although his words could have been spiteful, he takes care to back down, to let Sherlock vent, to freely speak his mind.

"Damn." Sherlock nearly grits his teeth, glares at John, who looks back questioningly and very intentionally, daringly silent. Sherlock seethes, stubborn, and a few moments go by before he finally surrenders. "I ... Can you --?"

"Yes?" John's words are charged, both of them realising that, although Sherlock had wanted to take care of the medications completely on his own, he's forgotten the second dose of the only one that is twice daily. "I realised, brought them in with me." John reaches into his shirt pocket, where he has put the pill container, and hands it over. There is already a water bottle on the nightstand. "Maybe we should keep them in ..."

"No." A few motions and the pill is followed by a pull on the water. "I won't forget it again."

"I know." John doesn't need to remind him that he was taking that pill right on schedule, and that he had indeed remembered albeit inconveniently.

Sherlock folds at his pillow, his breathing a bit harder than usual, the oxygen tubing still laying cast off on the floor. John can see already, even after a short time, that his level is not really all right but he's not necessarily in distress. Not yet.

He finds pyjamas, changing quickly in the bathroom, brushes his teeth while he is in there. In the bedroom, he clicks on the baby monitor so he will know when Rosie wakes. He turns out the lamp, and without a word, he tucks the oxygen in within arms reach near Sherlock's nightstand, close to him, before climbing into the other side of the bed.

"I guess I should put that back on?" Sherlock finally asks in the dark room, the question more of a disappointing observation.

"You'll sleep better, yes." _And so will I._

"I shouldn't be needing it."

"This isn't fixed overnight. There's still clot dissolving. And clots to be prevented." There is an irked huff of discouragement. John wants to reach out for Sherlock's hand, knows it will not be well received. Not yet. He reminds him, "It's going okay, you know. A week ago, you were on the ventilator."

"I don't really remember that."

"Thankfully," John adds.

Sherlock frowns in the dark. "Missing time is ..." He hisses. "I almost wish I did ..."

"I know. I knew you wouldn't, so ... I may have taken a few pictures."

The words sink in over a few seconds of silence. "That's creepy." John can hear Sherlock's head turn toward him. "What if I ...?"

"I would have deleted them, obviously." _Or hurled the mobile in the Thames_, John thinks.

"You took a gamble."

"Welcome to my world, being friends with you." John's words are fond, and he slides his hand across, seeking Sherlock's. Their fingers meet and join, loosely just touching for the moment.

"Friends." His word is a little charged, a little challenging. "So the photos, are they ... disturbing?"

"I haven't looked at them all that closely. Real thing's still fresh, pretty embedded in my memory." John recalls taking them, knowing it was something he needed, planning to show Sherlock eventually, or deleting them as he'd said without giving them another look. "Haven't really wanted to."

"It's still a dark thing to do." Despite his negative statement, he is obviously intrigued. "I want to see them."

"Tomorrow."

There is some fussing, a sigh of disappointment, as Sherlock tightens the oxygen back over his ears then struggles to find a comfortable position. The pillows are punched within an inch of their lives, folded, refolded, and Sherlock's breathing takes some time to settle.

John's sleep is again quite light, hearing Sherlock occasionally clearing his throat, coughing a few times, tossing his legs restlessly, or Rosie through the monitor rolling about or sighing. John has no idea what time it is, however, when he is awakened as the mattress jolts suddenly. Startled, he hears a few raspy, wheezy breaths and knows Sherlock is sitting upright. His eyes are wide even in the dark room and he is coughing. The mild coughing from the day before into the evening pales in comparison to this full body heaving, his lungs in spasm, his whole body and chest working hard to breathe, to clear irritated airways.

The spasms start to ease as Sherlock focuses on slowing his breathing down, regulating the depth and rhythm to be the least amount aggravating. John says little, a few cues now and again, some reassurance, but he is sitting up too, his hand on Sherlock's back, feeling the wheeze and the muscle efforts and the tremble of the exertion. He is offering his presence, even though there is very little that can be done except wait.

The muscle effort is strong, harsh, and tight, until finally the coughing spell seems to settle and the force is not quite so hard. "Something's wrong," Sherlock finally whispers.

"I know, your lungs are --"

"No, not that."

The concern, the tremble in his voice, sets off an alarm bell in John's mind. He reaches for the light, turns back in time to see Sherlock just beginning to ease back against the pillow, looking downward. His hand is at the top of his leg, over his pyjamas, and he is cringing and curled up tight, his knee coming up, guarding his body. Uncomfortable, alarmed, and - John sees - frightened. The position of his hand, protectively over the top of his thigh, on the outside of his lower abdomen is ominous, the way he is breathing is another clue. Uh oh.

"Let me ..." John begins, and as they both are attentively looking where Sherlock's hand is, they both notice it. "Okay, just lay back."

There is some considerable swelling that wasn't there before, quite obvious, a large, rounding lump that takes up most of the room in Sherlock's splayed fingers and palm.

Sherlock's inhale is tight, the only evidence of how much pain he is in at first. Against his nearly concave belly, at the top of Sherlock's leg, his hand is protuberant over some now obvious swelling where it shouldn't be. He breathes John's name, low and worried. And then, uncontrollably, he begins to shiver.

++

Although it could have been particularly critical and frightening, John's training spurs him to action without really needing to make a plan in advance. It keeps him calm. Which keeps Sherlock calm.

"Sorry, I know I'm holding tight." Sherlock, still trembling, is laying almost flat on the bed while John leans hard, pressing over the former groin puncture site that has begun to expand. "The coughing and the blood thinners," he begins.

"Obviously."

"Have to hold pressure here, make sure there's no more bleeding inside." With three fingers, John presses tight through the pyjamas, adding some bulk to the area by pulling off a pillow case with one hand, folding it inexactly, rolling it into place under his hand, pressing again. "Tuck the pillow under your shoulders if you need," he suggests when he notes that Sherlock's breathing is a little deep, heavy. "I'd help, but I'm a little --"

"I'm ... okay. Scared away the coughing." He keeps his breathing light, probably due to the discomfort as well as the desire to not trigger his cough reflex. His whole body is shaking, his colour a bit more pale than before. 

It is not pulsatile like a pseudoaneurysm, John thinks, though he can't be entirely sure at this point. Not yet. John wonders at the seriousness, the risk of retroperitoneal haematoma, where the bleeding is even worse on the inside and harder to tell. "Back pain?" he asks.

"No, not really," and John hears the anxiety, the slowness in his words. "Why?"

"Indicates worse bleeding, to be honest. But this feels very surface to me. Localised. The actual puncture site." He lightens his tone and increases the pressure for a few, knowing that reducing the haematoma can help stabilise things. "Least the coughing stopped. For now anyway." He checks the time again, then makes sure that Sherlock's foot isn't purple or white - pressing too hard - and that he's not grimacing in off-the-chart pain.

"How often does this happen?"

"It's a haematoma, bleeding on the inside from a puncture, the clot dislodges, a collection of blood. It happens often enough, I reckon." His back is already starting to ache, the bed too high for him to kneel and too low to be comfortable while bending down. "More common shortly after sheath removal, of course. But not unheard of afterward. Even this far out."

"My streak of good luck and fortune continues." It is a whisper, not necessarily one of self-pity. "Blood thinners are just glorified poison."

John doesn't necessarily disagree and mentally compares them to chemotherapeutic agents, which are even closer to poison. "It's all benefit risk assessment. Do the benefits outweigh the risks?"

"What do you think?" He fires the rhetorical question. "Think very carefully about where your hands are."

"I'm trying not to, actually."

"At least now I can stop taking them." The mutter is quiet but clear. His expression changes to disbelief as John shakes his head. "What, of course I'm done with that." His words are even a little shaky with the whole body shivering, more from the bleeding than being cold, John is sure. "Right?_ John?_"

"Nope." John wonders at the triple therapy, all of them necessary, and knows they will make a phone call to Sherlock's physician in the morning. "Not without blessing of someone with more authority than me. But I seriously doubt you'll be taken off them completely. They all work in different aspects --"

He rolls his eyes at John's words. "I've heard this before. But, this?" and he gestures with a still-shaky hand toward where John is pressing. "Bit more risk now? A _bit?!_ Apparently you must think you stand to inherit anything from me upon my death, which ..."

"You're not going to bleed to death." 

"Then let go." The challenge is direct - a command issued in shaky words.

"Correction: I'm not going to let you bleed to death."

"Lucky me."

For a moment, both of them look down again at where John's hands are. "I'm sorry, I know I'm probably hurting you."

"This was not at all what I had in mind when I imagined you ... "

"Please don't."

Although both of them think about chuckling, and in a previous moment may have actually managed it, the situation is too sobering, and time passes slowly until John very faintly lightens his touch. Over the course of the next half hour or so, there is no further increase in the size of the swelling, and the shaking subsides. He places a few pieces of gauze overtop of the area, adding a little pressure just in case, secures it with paper tape even as he apologises. "So I'm going to keep an eye on this, next few hours, and ..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

John feels a huge breath enter his chest under tight shoulders, exhales without sighing audibly. "Fine." He tucks Sherlock's pillow again, silently gesturing him to keep the stress off his belly, his core, his hands smoothing out flat. Although the monitor is quiet, he points upstairs, going out of his way to refrain from speaking and goes to check on Rosie.

His return to the bedroom is noted by Sherlock shifting around a bit in bed. "I know you're stiff, sore. But you need to keep ..."

"I know. Just --" Sherlock begins and then changes his mind. His frustration, annoyance, and ... something close to despair is apparent.

John shrugs, "I'm sorry it happened, but really, try to keep that area quiet. A few moments later, he adds, "I don't think I just held all that pressure for you to move around too much, dislodge the clot."

"Right, because this is all about you."

"Okay, then, how about this instead: keep still or you run the risk of losing your leg." Or worse, John doesn't say.

"Don't be over-dramatic. _Bloody drama queen._" There is a small chuckle, a snicker, Sherlock first (thankfully) and John follows with a tiny snort of laughter that seems to ease the stress level in the room. He checks the bandage again, finds it clean, dry, and more importantly notes the surrounding area without an increase in the haematoma.

"I think we're good. Seems okay right now."

"Quick, go get my meds, I can fix that." There is the faintest glimmer of humour returning, and despite the darkness of it, John is a little more relieved. Again. 

He shakes his head on the inside at the roller-coaster of this past week. And then he snuffles a bit, catching Sherlock's glance, realising that the roller coaster began at the bequest of Mike Stamford. _Years_ previously. Back in the moment, John engages again, tells Sherlock, "Don't forget to cough. Hard, and without holding that area for support."

Sherlock smirks. "Or sneezing, that would be ..."

"Yes, also bad."

"Of course."

In the end, John dims the light, then fetches his laptop again to put a movie on. "Might as well, I suppose," he starts, leaving out the reason. They both too keyed up to sleep. He chooses one that they haven't seen before, something benign with action and adventure but no gore. "You'll let me know if that feels off again?" John says at one point, a slower scene of the movie. "Sometimes the leak is slow, so you might not notice right away."

"I'm all right."

John nods, makes a small observation along with a wistful smile. "This, watching a movie like this, I mean, was more well, I suppose not exactly _fun_ at the hospital, with the beer." And the blanket over them both. And the careful intimacy, John in the recliner by Sherlock's bed, their cautious hand-holding and the impossible to ignore chemistry.

"Agreed. I don't think anyone's definition of fun would include this."

The movie drones on, Sherlock finally falls asleep, with John laying awake quite long after that, worrying and wondering. Sleep is elusive, but eventually he does drift off.

Only to be awakened what seemed like a few minutes later by Rosie's sounds in the morning, her day beginning as usual, her night having been everything - restful, restorative, peaceful - John's was not.

++

There was the milestone of Sherlock looking his smoking habit in the face.

A frustrated morning finds Sherlock in his chair, slouching. Aggravated. He stares straight ahead, where a half pack of cigarettes sits on the coffee table in front of him. A lighter lies next to it. His eyes are solemn, riveted, and - John thinks - a little heartsick.

"You can't smoke on oxygen, Sherlock." There is a turn, a piercing look, an _I dare you, fuck off_ narrowing of his eye. John returns it in spades. "Ever."

A _pfft_ sound comes from between aggravated lips as he - once again - flings the cannula off. The flexible plastic makes a tiny snick of landing on the floor.

"You do realise that it's still flowing, and even, the equipment aside," John says casually, keeping his voice somewhat even key and reasonable, "there's Rosie."

"Take her downstairs, then. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will --"

"How about we distract your mind with something other than your cigarette cravings."

"Something stronger?" Sherlock's venomous words are grim. "A few phone calls, and I'm sure I can --"

"No."

"Oh? With a murder perhaps? I hear flatmates are offing each other regularly when the one tries to micromanage --" Underneath the aggravation is the faintest glimmer of Sherlock making an attempt, of trying, of ... well, at least not meaning the fact that he was _considering_ murder.

"I can still outrun you."

"Yes, but --" And the argument dies a premature death and Sherlock's frustration builds again. "John!" Sherlock's fingers drum out a quick rhythm, a chaotic beat, evidence that he's nearly climbing out of his skin.

"I know. It'll pass. How about we --?"

Sherlock interrupts. "Seems a bit late for these withdrawal symptoms."

"I think you know the reason." Sherlock looks back at him, waiting with irritation. So John obliges him. "Physical versus psychological."

"Rubbish."

John gestures at where his foot is tapping, his leg quivering, his breathing markedly exaggerated as he just needed to move. "It's like you're a kid with ADHD."

"That's not funny."

"Notice I'm not laughing."

"They diagnosed me with that as a child. Tried meds, therapy, tutoring."

Sherlock hesitates at that, watching John closely for his reaction, and John himself blinks for only a moment. The times he has ever surprised Sherlock he can count on one hand, and this is probably as good a time as any for another - what he thinks will be, anyway - moment to surprise the man. With a knowing look, he clears his throat before speaking. "Me too. well ADD, not the other," John admits, and when Sherlock cuts a quick, surprised stare at him, he adds, "Seriously. Couldn't sit still, trouble paying attention in school."

"And?"

"Outgrew it. My mum never allowed them to prescribe anything."

"While mine couldn't wait to try something, anything, to fix my disappointing behaviour." Although their banter is light-hearted, there is a degree of truth, of hurt even these years later, that John picks up on. An undercurrent of, even now, looking to be comforted and reassured.

"You're not broken. And there's nothing to fix about you." His hand reaches out, covers Sherlock's, settles down the twitching and restlessness.

"I can give you a list of people who disagree."

"They're idiots." John decides for a new tactic, a diversion if nothing else, so he leans in, sucks a huge kiss over Sherlock's lips, pestering with his tongue, his jaw, to be let in, opened up, permitted. They snog a long minute or two, until John eases back. "I hear most people are idiots, actually."

"Oh?"

"From a fairly reputable source."

_"Fairly?"_

"Well, he gets a bit tetched now and again."

A few kisses follow, warm, soft lips meeting, pressing. _You're okay, you're okay, you're okay._

"You know what else'd make me feel better?" Although John's first thought is something of a sexual nature, his tone and his expression make it clear that he is referencing a cigarette when he looks again at the pack in front of them.

"You can't," John breathes. "Really and truly."

There is a new look of resignation. "Had I known that last one would be my very last one, I would have enjoyed it a helluva lot more."

He turns once more to John and then slowly closes his eyes. His chest settles with an exhale.

"Go ahead. But I can't watch."

As expected, John takes them into the kitchen, where he drowns and bins them. 

When he comes back into the room, Sherlock is still forlorn, but he opens an eye. "I certainly hope you're not expecting me to thank you for doing that."

"Long as you're not expecting a thank you from me, either."

"I think I might be entitled, actually."

"For making a wise health choice and removing temptation?" John's voice is quiet and serious. He does realise that this was a hard moment. "It was the right thing to do."

"You've hated every cigarette I've ever smoked." Sherlock's voice is thin. "In fact, I think you probably really enjoyed doing that, destroying ..."

_"Thank you."_ John's interjection and the inflection that he does indeed mean it, does stop Sherlock's complaint. "For doing that very hard thing."

Sherlock's misery escalates just a bit, and he purses his lips in annoyance. "Well, now I hope you're not expecting a you’re welcome from me."

John can't stop the chuckle. "You know, if you're looking to pick a fight with me, I'm completely game to spar a bit with you. Or, hey, maybe a better idea, perhaps invite your brother over. Just say the word."

"You're not much competition anyway."

"I'm taking it easy on you. Out of pity."

"You're too competitive for that."

"I'm too fond of you to see you defeated." There is truth, more than John had initially intended, in that statement, and he utters a silent, breathy laugh as he realises how true indeed it is.

Sherlock cuts a look in his direction, amused and quite aware of the change of the conversation. He tips his head back again and his eyes drift closed, but there is a hint of spark there, a small bit of satisfaction - _the game_, and John is again grateful to see it. Sherlock sighs in mock surrender. "Fine. But at least make whatever excuse you're going to dangle at Mycroft be somewhat believable. I'd hate to have him somewhat prepared to be ... humiliated. Cut down to size."

++

Another milestone was addressing one of the reasons that explained - or partially explained - Sherlock's appetite problems.

One morning, John makes tea for them both, sets out a small assortment of toast, fruit, yoghurt. Sherlock eats absolutely nothing.

"Not hungry," he mumbles at John's question which is voiced without words, a simple raise of his brow.

Lunchtime finds them with a similar discussion, and John thinks Sherlock looks a little green about the gills. "What isn't right?" he asks. "Are you having pain?" When Sherlock looks up at him, a guarded set to his features, John tells him, "I can tell you just don't feel quite yourself."

"I haven't in a long time," he confesses. "Just ... not hungry." His eyes look to John, and they are flat, no sparkle. "Full." 

Full. John considers the word choice, the various causes, the possibilities. He knows for a fact that Sherlock is not hydrating adequately, that his activity levels are way down, that his stress levels are high. "Okay, so, full. Does that mean that things aren't ... _happening_," and he gestures to his own lower stomach, "that maybe you're a little ... blocked up?"

Sherlock's eyes close, and his face turns away. "Oh god, please stop talking."

"Oh, okay, that's a great idea, because clearly not talking about it is helping. I'm sure, after all you just went through, that you'd love to get readmitted with a bowel obstruction -"

"Oh god _shut up._"

" - or worse - because you don't want to discuss things that should be happening."

"Go away."

"And what to do about it."

"John, I mean it, st--"

"It also explains why we haven't made much progress with the oxygen today. If you're uncomfortable, you don't breathe as deeply." They'd tried a few times leaving the pulse oximeter on and the oxygen off, but his levels were not high enough so the oxygen was replaced. Some of the time, Sherlock didn't even want to check, not wanting to be disappointed again. "There are things we can --"

"No."

"I'm sorry that you're --"

"Swear to god, I'll throw myself out the window if you finish that sentence."

John considers addressing that, throwing the event - _throwing himself_ off of any structure seems a particularly personal, low blow - back at him. Instead, he reminds himself that medical professionals are just not as uncomfortable as basically everyone else in the entire universe when it comes to discussing bodily functions. He chooses the high road and waits for Sherlock to look at him, and their eyes meet. Despite Sherlock's protests and yes, embarrassment, John can see that he is actually uncomfortable and just perhaps, looking for help. But in a roundabout, indirect way. John knows he can oblige him in that, opts for a redirection again. Rolling his eyes, yet again, John chuckles. "Seriously? You do realise that --"

"It'll happen when it happens."

"Are you aware," John says with a little more force, quickly, speaking over the few times that Sherlock continues to try to interrupt him, "that people can get into serious trouble with this. I know you're not interested in what I have to say, but listen to me: there are things we can try, or that you can do, to help. It doesn't mean that anything necessarily ... _aggressive_ needs to happen. I wouldn't even recommend any extra medicine to speed things along. Not yet."

Sherlock's cheekbones are tinged pink and he is looking away but the protestations have stopped.

John takes this as permission to keep talking. "How long's it been?" He doesn't specify what he is asking.

Sherlock knows anyway. "Couple of days I guess."

"Increase fluids for sure. Drinking water will help. Roughage, fruit juice, higher fiber foods." John shakes his head as Rosie overhears them discussing fruit juice and brings her sippy cup over, hands it to Sherlock. He continues to be amazed - and perhaps mildly alarmed - at how much she really understands. "Yes, that's so nice. Thank you very much."

"It's ninety percent backwash. No thank you." Though he wrinkles his nose in disgust, Sherlock ruffles at Rosie's hair, briefly.

John doesn't miss a beat. "Take it and pretend." When Sherlock does unenthusiastically comply, John pats at Rosie and sends her back on her way over to where she's been playing. "Activity also helps keep things moving, and lord knows this is the least active you've probably ever been. And it's been ten days, going on two weeks now that you've been less active, almost stuck in either a bed or a chair?" He opts not to even address other measures or medications, but stops there. "Have a glass of water. And we'll go for a little walk."

Annoyed, Sherlock picks at the oxygen tubing, letting the protestation be apparent.

John is nonplussed. "We'll take it with us."

"I'm not going outside wearing it."

"Sherlock, really --"

"And there's Rosie, isn't she due for a nap?"

"The pushchair is easy, and she might fall asleep in it, which is fine. And worth it."

"No."

"It won't be a long walk, but any little bit might --"

"Not going."

John senses that the line has just been drawn in the sand, so he meets it head on. Darkly he thinks that since Sherlock had the audacity to refer to that very unpleasant day years ago, he can rise to the occasion and push back just a little. Assertive, no problem. "Okay, then. Let me talk to you in great detail about what happens if things don't progress, don't start _moving_ on their own." Sherlock's eyes, guarded and hesitant, rise to meet his. "Descriptive detail. In long drawn out explanations if I have to. First of all, I'll make a quick run to the chemists, and purchase some things, including ..."

"Where is that bloody portable tank?"

The walk is short given Sherlock's fatigue and activity intolerance, but the rest of the day does actually pass without further confrontation, with Sherlock at least having listened enough to drink the glass of water John supplies him with, that he is less inclined to just sit back and relax but walking around even inside the flat more than he'd been doing. He manages to make appropriate food choices at their final meal of the day. And later, John returns to the empty sitting room after tucking Rosie in, and after a bit, Sherlock reappears.

John opens his mouth but before he can get even the first sound of the opening word's consonant out, Sherlock holds up a hand. "Don't." Another purse of John's lip is silenced by Sherlock's harsh answer to the unasked question, "Yes." John meets his reluctant, if somewhat embarrassed gaze. _"Fine."_

No further words are necessary.

John fiddles with the remote for the telly, and when the side of his mouth goes up in an unintentional silent smirk, relieved, Sherlock pounces on that too. "Stop that." The movie begins, and John works hard at not specifically paying attention to Sherlock, but at one slower part, John goes to the kitchen to scrounge for a small bit of a snack for them both. Sherlock's spoken "Thank you" seems a bit intense for the bowl of crisps, and when John realises this and glances over, Sherlock's stare is quite ... genuine. His eyes are full of fondness, appreciation, and gratitude - and he can tell it is for much more than the circumstance, the help. It is for _everything_. John returns the smile, and the warmth in his chest at their shared exchange lingers long into the evening.

++

There is progress noted with each physician appointment that John makes Sherlock schedule and keep. Well, mostly progress.

"I think they should have warned me about the possibility of ending up with chronic pulmonary hypertension."

They have just left Sherlock's appointment with his primary doctor, which is one of the senior partners at the surgery at which John works. He's only taken short shifts so far, but is somewhat uneasy about it. Rosie has been with a minder, sometimes Molly, sometimes one of the other sitters John's used.

"Someone should have told me. Or you should have, at the beginning." The statistics, John realises, are a little sobering. Many patients have some lingering sensation of breathlessness after pulmonary embolism, something like sixty percent at six months out from the initial insult. John chooses not to remind him that the diagnosis was actually listed on his discharge summary, that long and sobering record of the hospitalisation, the severity, the complications.

"So that, what? We could have not treated you at all, just let nature have taken its course?"

Sherlock is indignant. "Maybe." He is looking for a rise and John is not about to give it to him. "Not worth it."

John hesitates, waits until Sherlock is looking at him. Expectantly. John hopes he does not disappoint when he says, "That's about the most idiotic thing I've ever heard you say."

Sherlock's jaw changes shape as he clenches his teeth, looks away, aggravated.

"I mean, really Sherlock?" John makes sure his voice isn't overly critical. "I'm sorry that this isn't resolving as quickly as you'd like. But you're only at, what, two months? And it's better than it was. You're mostly off the oxygen now. And just because your breathing isn't back to one hundred percent doesn't mean that, in another month or two, it won't be."

"You wouldn't understand. This isn't happening to you."

For all the times John has overlooked Sherlock's comments, he wonders about this time and chooses what he hopes will be gently delivered. "I won't argue that, of course. But it is happening to us. And, well, I'm choosing to remind you that I'm here with you, that I want only whatever we have because we're together. And I know that it might not be easy, but it is _definitely worth it."_

Sherlock's brow furrows. "You're sure?"

John smiles, tugs at Sherlock's elbow until he looks back, and winks. "Yes, I'm sure."

++

Rosie achieves a few milestones of her own, too. She adapts quite quickly to having the upstairs bedroom all to herself. John rationalises to himself that Sherlock might need him, that he will rest better in close proximity. He tells himself that it has nothing to do with being able to hold Sherlock's hand under the covers or the occasional drawn out, gentle, unrushed kisses they share.

The milestone is linked with further progress between the men who sleep downstairs, too, although it was not necessarily discussed or planned.

The day is cold, rainy, and full of little irritants. Although Sherlock forgoes the oxygen much of the time, he is aggravated by the ongoing sensation of being winded. His oxygen levels remain okay, and both John and Sherlock find that they check less often as time passes. It is more the physiologic feeling than actual physical symptoms, and of course, is worse with activity such as climbing the steps.

So by the end of the day, the irritability is for some reason pronounced, and Sherlock declares that he has a splitting headache and disappears into the bedroom. John finishes a small amount of straightening up, tucks Rosie in for the night, and waits a bit before turning in himself. Sherlock tosses the moment he enters, his breathing and body movements all quite clearly conveying his displeasure. And that he is still awake.

"No better?"

"What do you think."

"Did you take something?"

"Yes. And drank a glass of water. And took off the bloody patch, before you remind me in your condescending, pathetic soft language skills. I'm quite aware, thank you, that dehydration can cause headache, as can transdermal nicotine."

"Okay, noted." John pulls his pyjamas on in the dark and gets into bed, trying to jiggle the mattress as little as possible. They lay in silence for a while, and then John asks, "Is it any better? Even a little?"

"No. But the pounding is less laying down." He is frustrated and John can hear the discomfort in his voice. "Marginally." John knows, too, that Sherlock is exhausted.

"Can I try something?"

"Amputation?"

John snickers a little under cover of darkness. "Of your _head?"_

"Yes."

"No." He breathes in, wishing he can ease the burden again, make this all go away, or at least make it better. "So?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether it's something that will actually help or just something to be a ... distraction."

"Does it matter, long as it helps?"

There is a soft huff, a moment of silent complaining. "Fine."

John smiles more broadly into the darkness, looking forward to what he thinks should give Sherlock some much needed relief. "Turn," he says quietly, pushing very slightly against Sherlock's arm, guiding him over on his side facing away. He tucks his own pillow a bit higher, slides just a little closer before working his fingers just faintly on Sherlock's neck. His fingertips are exquisitely gentle, simply using light touch on his neck, then moving slowly, massaging in drawn out circles, working the smallest bit at a time. His shoulders are not as tense as John is expecting, and there is the faintest humm of approval deep in Sherlock's throat, however, an indication that he likes it, and perhaps is agreeable to more.

It changes when John believes that his neck is relaxed enough and just barely works his fingers into the back of Sherlock's head, into the curls.

The groan that comes on the first brush of John's splayed fingers is loud and surprising. John doesn't startle, however, and utters some encouragement at his response, "That's it, then. You're doing great, just ... breathe," and he continues, with glacial slowness, the path of his fingers in Sherlock's hair, over his ears, to the crown of his head, working in unrushed paths toward his temples. The sound of fingers in hair, small noise of overlapping hair fibres, of linen as John adjusts his arms, masks the realisation that Sherlock is also moving - and when he arches his back, scissoring his legs so that his body is almost in direct contact with John's front. John does startle at that, at the unexpectedness of it, and his fingers tighten - over and into Sherlock's hair. The handfuls of hair are gripped and then almost immediately released.

But the effect of the increased intensity, of the force, is instant. And apparently something Sherlock finds quite somatic. Quite pleasurable.

"Oh god, do that again."

John's fingers freeze. "Do what?"

"With your fingers."

"Hmm?" John doesn't think that his fingers actually did anything, other than --

The tugging? He clenches his fingers again, giving Sherlock's hair a very gentle, slow _tug_, a grab, an increase in steady tension, not enough to hurt but enough to be felt. To be experienced. This time, he massages as he holds and tips Sherlock's head back in his grip, bringing their heads closer together. Over the next minute he experiments - tighter, snugger, a bit sharper, massaging as he goes - and he never has to wonder even for a second if Sherlock likes it. The vocal, guttural response, the positive encouragement, the approval in the many sounds that hover quietly between them, lays it all right on the table.

Some of the sounds go straight to John's waist, lower, and before things get more interested, he begins to slide back before things become too apparent, stops only when Sherlock's hand snaps down to capture his hip and prevent the motion. "No." Fingertips press into John's leg. "It's okay. Don't."

"Okay, but ..."

_"Please."_

John's fingers continue their mission, their ministry, on Sherlock's scalp. "How's your headache?" he finally whispers.

Sherlock's words are almost slurred. "Good, very ... good."

John smiles against his pillow at Sherlock's submission, his languor. "Seems you have a fondness," he leans forward as he speaks, presses his lips against Sherlock's jaw, "for this," and as he delivers the last words he crooks his fingers again against Sherlock's sensitive follicles. There is tension and togetherness and the pull of Sherlock's head back against John's shoulder. John is fairly certain that, although in the present moment, the sensations are relaxing Sherlock, under different circumstances, he might find it ... different. Escalating. Arousing.

"God yes." Another growl sounds low and it is more relaxed and drawn out than previously. "It's --"

"I'm glad you're better."

The whispering of a gravelly 'thanks' in return is nearly unintelligible. John's touch lightens and slows until he is positive Sherlock's breathing can only indicate that he's extremely relaxed, nearly fallen asleep. He moves his hands away, letting his body relax. The partial hardness that he's been trying to ignore gives another half-hearted throb for a few minutes, and he doesn't press in as he'd like, but shifts backward in very minute amounts so as not to disturb his armful of flatmate.

And oh, the armful of flatmate. They are on the cusp of something new, something different and wonderful. _Something better._

It is not too long before his body also settles, relaxes, and he follows Sherlock to sleep, his arm resting lightly against his ribs, their breathing fairly synchronous, the warmth of their bodies comfortable and soothing.

When he awakens, they have obviously adjusted in their sleep and their positions are reversed, and he finds himself as the smaller spoon. The hesitancy he'd displayed in pressing his erection against Sherlock's bum is one hundred percent absent from Sherlock, and the hardness poking him at the tops of the back of his thighs is insistent and rigid.

He stretches, feeling the way their bodies are pressing together. Aware. Seeking.

"Oh good you're awake."

"Hmmm." John manages, his mind coming back on line. His body, though, he realises, is already quite aware of the proximity and thoughts of his bed partner. They are close, sharing warmth and the faint movements of chest rise, of breathing. He tips his head back just a bit, nudges at Sherlock's shoulder faintly. Both are wearing sleepy smiles in the very dim light, enjoying the closeness, savouring the anticipation.

Sherlock's cheek comes closer to the side of John's head, nuzzles just a little. "Can I?" Sherlock breathes into his ear, his hand coming around to John's waist, the tips of his fingers into the waistband of his pyjamas. They wriggle and press, warm, faint violin calluses, hesitating, going no further, awaiting consent. "John please."

"What are you ...?"

"Just my hand," Sherlock whispers, "I want to touch is all." His voice is sultry and gravelly and close to John's ear. "For now."

"God yes, if you're sure," he says, arching his back into Sherlock's body, feeling the urgency and the ardor and the _want. _"All right."

"Yes, I'm sure, I want to ... let me ..." and his hand reaches in, his fingers closing around John's length, and there is as much rubbing as two men can manage while laying as they are, Sherlock's hand and his pelvis, met by John's back and his own hips, pressing and rubbing and stroking, his hand along Sherlock's hip, guiding and urging and as the tension builds between them, so does the intensity of their movements. John twists his head, his mouth coming back to make contact with Sherlock's face. There is not enough breathing nor enough room for much more than kissing, and John manages to notice that Sherlock seems fine, breathing as expected and not wheezing or panting out of character for their activities.

"Oh god," he hisses, his own hand coming down on top of Sherlock's, the two of them in sync along with Sherlock's thrusts into the back of John's legs. Even through the layers of clothing - too many, but there will be time for that later - he can feel ridges and hardness, yearning and tension. This time, so much built-up, desire that has been simmering, it will be over quickly - and they plunge ahead, movements becoming jittery and less coordinated.

"Yes," one of them breathes - or both of them, and there is tensing and convulsing and bodies tight and unmoving at the last moments, the crest of energy, before release. Before blissful, wonderful, amazing, brilliant, spectacular, _finally,_ release.

Sherlock's breath is hot against John's back, and he sighs. The rest of the night, slumber is sweet.

++

There is another milestone, one that neither of them were expecting: another hospital procedure.

"What?" Sherlock nearly hisses when the doctor mentions it. _"What!?"_

"It's recommended that the filter be removed four to six months after it's placed. The complication rate at that time begins to rise, and leaving it in puts you at higher risk later in life for --"

John can feel his own pulse rate accelerate at the thought. It had been frightening each time Sherlock went into a procedure area before, when he was left to himself in another endless waiting room, tepid coffee in paper cups, thinking about his own breathing or other mindless distractions as opposed to what Sherlock was enduring and what possibilities, complications, problems might be on the horizon. The thought of doing it again is ... nauseating. Disturbing.

He squelches it, keeping his face neutral as the doctor continues. The science, the explanation, the reasons, all make perfect sense. John just hadn't realised it.

"It's really a small procedure, a bit of numbing medication, minimal sedation. In and out, back home in under a couple of hours."

"What if I want it left in. Left alone." His chin angles up, and John maintains his own silence, knowing that the doctor will address it, address his concerns, provide him with the facts and the data and the research.

Which he does, in spades. With words like haemorrhage, filter mishap, filter rupture, perforation, risks from anticoagulation therapy, risk of additional thrombus ...

"As soon as possible." Sherlock's phrase is harsh.

"You'll have to talk with the interventionalist of course, their office scheduler, usually it's a few weeks ..."

"No."

The physician smiles a bit placatingly and John's unease escalates at that. "I have no control over another surgeon's ..."

"Oh please. If this were a close friend, or a family member, you'd be playing every angle imaginable, going the extra mile ..."

"Now Mr. Holmes, just hold on a ..."

John clears his throat, and it is a threatening sort of attention-grabbing noise. "All we're asking here," he begins, and it is a calm tone with a sharp edge of don't mess with me underneath, "is that you perhaps make a phone call, explain things." Owlish blinks happen back at him, and John smiles with a coolness. "For all Mr. Holmes has been through, I really don't think it's too much to ask, do you?"

John glances over, sees Sherlock taking in the man's personal coat, his bag next to the shelves. There are a few family photos on the desk, some memorabilia, and John knows, he can just tell, that Sherlock is in full stop deductive mode, making a connection of some sort between the state of his shoes and some other random detail, and ready to exploit it. He holds out a hand toward Sherlock, slowly, palm down, hoping to convey some degree of patience. "Not yet," he whispers to Sherlock, then turns back to the doctor. "I'm sure you'll be able to help us."

The doctor purses his lips, but ends up making the call, and the procedure is scheduled for a mere four days away. Just long enough for the appropriate changes with Sherlock's anticoagulants that need to stop prior to filter removal.

And the procedure goes off without a hitch, with the only exception being that the coffee in the paper cup is actually almost hot enough to nearly burn the inside of John's mouth in the waiting room. They are home by lunchtime, and Sherlock finds a few hours to sleep off the mild sedation, on the couch while Rosie naps upstairs.

It feels, oddly enough, that they just might be entering the home stretch of Sherlock's recovery.

++

There are other milestones, too. John insists on a visit to the ICU one morning in order to deliver a personal thank you to the staff. They arrange for a minder for Rosie and carry in a few trays of pastries for both shifts of nurses and whatever physicians might be there. John sees a few familiar faces and is glad that so many of the providers give Sherlock the affirmation of how splendidly he is doing and that they had been so worried at his instability months before. It is also a relief, however, to leave the hospital again.

"I seem to recall almost nothing from that unit." Sherlock is frowning again. "But they sure remembered you."

"It was hard. But I'm glad, truthfully, that you don't remember much. And the staff, well, they worked hard to keep you ..."

"Alive," Sherlock finishes. "I mean, I knew you weren't exaggerating, but ... that was pretty constant among all of them today."

John's chest tightens just a little at the memory, and he slips his fingers into Sherlock's as they turn their steps toward home.

++

There was the milestone of medication adjustments as one finishes, and then another. Current recommendations, thankfully, do not indicate lifelong continuation except for the low strength aspirin. And if John is grateful, Sherlock is _ecstatic_ as he bins the empty containers.

++

The weekend before their getaway, they carefully plan some Rosie-centric activities. They snuggle with her on the couch, watch her favourite shows, read her favourite books. There are walks in the park down the street, sleepy cuddles under a fleecy blanket, and a few small gifts packed away for while they will be gone, tucked carefully away for Molly to help her open. There is a visit to the register office, a few signatures, a quiet, intimate dinner for just the two of them.

At Angelos. Because where else?

They discuss the weather and the food and the rest of the day. They discuss the fact that they chose this day to be solely for them and that their family and friends may be less than thrilled. Sherlock reminds John that this was the only gift he wanted - to do this without fanfare and to focus on just the two of them. The conversation comes full circle back to the year they've had, the journey, the difficult phases since they'd become friends, the scare of something happening - of worse things nearly happening. It is poignant and refreshing and ends very hopeful: that no matter the journey ahead, they would not walk it alone.

They do not notice Angelo watching them occasionally, seeing the change, the shift, the focus. He notices everything. He notices their rings. He notices when they are preparing to leave, and makes sure to follow them to the doorway, where he chuckles and does the usual farewell, please come again routine. He waits until they are a few steps away then adds, "Oh, by the way," and there is a lilt and a tone that makes both John and Sherlock turn, questioningly.

"Congratulations." He taps at his own ring-adorned hand while grinning at them both. All three are smiling as they continue on with their evening, Angelo to work the room and assure a great dining experience. John and Sherlock have a similarly great experience that evening, there in the bedroom back at Baker Street.

++

John glances out the window at the cabin, thinking that perhaps he will go out in search of Sherlock. The day is lightly cloudy, some patches of pale blue overhead, a few birds twitching the branches of one of the hedges as they hop about. A faint breeze barely stirs the tree branches and the sound catches sweetly overhead. Seems the search and rescue mission will be unneeded, John identifies, as Sherlock is striding back toward him, though still a distance away. His steps are long, his coat flaring and open, hair even from far away, catching the nuances of red, of chestnut hues in the morning light. He flicks on the kettle again, figuring that they can catch up over a cup of tea on the screened in porch of the cabin.

He relishes the notion that he is no longer dealing with the anxiety of Sherlock being out of his sight, concerned at the idea that something would happen. It had been a gradual relaxing, an abatement of fear that happened in waves, a little better one day, plateau, another day where he needed to reach out, text or call. But, thankfully, it is quite well managed now. He works full shifts, and has for a long time, and both of them are a little sensitive, a little more sensitive, toward the needs of the other.

Footsteps stomp outside the door, the handle turns, and the sounds of the outdoor breezes, animals, nature accompany a zesty, somewhat windblown man into the room.

"Hey," John says by way of greeting.

"Miss me?" Sherlock retorts, but he is laughing, using the words and the tone to be deliberately prickly.

"Nope."

"You were watching for me." He looks down, sees John's shoes. "You were actually going to come out and find me. You want more tea."

"Perhaps. Thought you might be finding another mystery. Or got into mischief."

"No. Coming back here. Thought you might need your beauty sleep." A wrinkle appears over his nose, then changes into laugh lines at his eyes and mouth as he adds, "I see it didn't help," and he meets John's questioning gaze. "And I did make you a promise."

"Several, in fact."

"Your sex holiday, yes."

"Never mind the love honour and cherish."

"Rubbish."

John chuckles. "So you didn't mean the vows?"

He makes a gesture of surrender. "Oh, that, yes, of course. But I meant them without needing to say them in front of a stranger."

"We could have asked --"

"No."

"He was a nice man."

"He had a tie with frogs on it. And socks to match."

"So he was strange."

"Exactly my point." Sherlock looks annoyed. "Strange enough." A chuckle is shared, knowing that indeed this was true. Sherlock checks the progress of the tea, which is now in mugs, and passes the time until it's ready by removing his shoes. "So, yes, I promised you a sex holiday."

"You say that as if you're getting nothing out of it."

"I didn't mean to imply that I'm not benefiting from it."

"You say that as if you're uninterested." John can give prickly right back at his husband. "As if you didn't initiate it both times yesterday."

"Well, at your age, pushing the limits of your refractory period is something of a personal challenge to me ..."

"You're such a liar."

++

The evening is brisk and cool and they share a walk in the dusky moonlit air ends with them relaxing on the front porch of the cabin. John tops off their glasses of pinot noir, raises his glass to his lips, savouring each peaceful moment.

"It's still a bit of a surprise to me," Sherlock says quietly as he sets the glass down. When John turns to him, all of his attention, Sherlock continues, "when normal breathing kind of catches me off guard."

John nods, sips, then puts his own glass aside. "It took a long time to get that way. Finally."

"I actually never thought it would happen."

"I try not to think about that too much." John keeps his face from shuddering, remembering how sick Sherlock had been, the desperate procedures, the threat to his health and well-being. He recalls those terrible moments when all of them were concerned about the possibility of long-lasting neurological symptoms, of breathing issues, of the potential for a somewhat decreased quality of life. "Do you?"

"No. I choose not to. But now and again, I realise that breathing is easy. Normal." There are laugh lines and the quiet peace of satisfaction about his face. "And it's good."

John finds his hand, holds, squeezes in agreement. "You know what else would be good?"

"I suppose it has something to do with the fact that you have an erection and the lube is in your inside jacket pocket?"

Chagrined, John manages to shake his head a little. "I don't suppose anyone would ever mistake you for a romantic. I was going to say something along the lines of, we could go inside and find better ways to take your breath away. Or to show you how much I care. Or to see how good I can make it for you?"

"Well you're off to a commendable start, warming the lube up in your pocket ... for my comfort."

"I'm all for it."

"It's also still pretty good, you know, when you ..." His voice trails off.

"What, you can use the words erection and lube in a sentence but don't like to mention that you like it when I tug at your hair, when I hold your head still with my hands?"

"I love it when you talk dirty."

Off the edges of the porch, there is the sound of a night animal calling to another, quietly. There are the soft chirps of crickets, of the faint wind in the distant trees, of a car still a long way off. There are soft smiles as they stand up, still holding fingertips, and carry their things inside. The door is closed, locked, and inside, their breaths become warmer and the sheets envelop them softly, the weight of the duvet insulating them from the rest. Quiet affirmations - oh god yes, more, yes please, just like that, almost - hover in the air, the quiet moan beyond actual words, dissipate into the woodwork, leaving behind the sweet, sleepy snuggles of two sated, happy men who are at peace with each other and with the world.

++

He stumbles on a case, something as convoluted as he's ever seen, sets a few of his constables on it, who get nowhere. He sends a text to them both, figures he'll drop the file off on his way home. The texts are neither read nor responded to, so Greg opts to swing by and is surprised to find Molly there, chattering with Rosie, who is in her high chair having supper.

"So they're, where, did you say?"

"Borrowed cabin up north somewhere. A cottage, one of John's friends or something." Molly is uneasy and vague. He squints at her as a means to checking out her story and she blushes, looks away.

"On holiday, you say."

Her lips thin out and she still refuses to look at him. "Yes."

"Does his brother know?"

"That they're away, yes, I would expect so."

Rosie makes a bit of mess, the unwanted and uneaten dinner finding its way to the edge of the floor and Molly rescues it before it becomes a bigger mess.

Greg bluffs. "No, I didn't mean that they're away, but the reason for it."

She freezes, blinks, looks at him almost guiltily. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do." He smiles. "Neither of them answered me, and John of course, I can understand. But not Sherlock. Not without a damned good reason." Her cheeks flush again. "So, actually, I think it's fairly obvious."

"Obvious?" Molly is downright worrying, but gets a bit distracted, lifting Rosie to the sink to help her wash her face and hands.

"You know something," he mutters. "And I've got eyes. Something is up."

"Please don't," she says with a frown as Rosie splashes in the running water.

"I have a case," he begins, coming closer, into their personal space, to slide both Rosie's and Molly's sleeves up out of the faucet, out of the water, "that I could really use their help with."

She shrugs, helps Rosie with drying her hands, and says nothing further.

They chat a few more minutes with Molly bringing up other unrelated topics. Rosie toddles over a bit later holding the iPad, hands it to Molly.

"Yes, I guess it's about time," she says, reaching for her own mobile. "We usually facetime in the evenings."

"Oh good, I can say hello too," Greg settles back on the chair, picks up Rosie, "To your papa and ..."

"Pere," Rosie finishes for him. "Call!"

"... and find out why they're ignoring me."

A few texts are exchanged confirming availability and Molly makes sure to mention in one of them that Greg is there visiting. When the call connects, it is three people at the table on Baker Street on one screen, two people on a black leather couch on the other.

Conversation is benign for a few minutes, Greg looking at them intently while Rosie chatters on, showing them some various things that were somehow relevant to her day. John laughs at her antics, tells her he misses her, makes faces that make her giggle. He plays peekaboo with her, just once, which she finds hysterical but Sherlock does not, and he reaches up to grab John's hands away with an admonition to stop being ridiculous.

After a bit she scampers off, and Greg asks them about helping with the case. It is John who says they'll be back in town in a couple of days, and that they will be glad to take a look then. 

"You can't come back early, not even for a mystery like this?"

Sherlock answers, "You'll manage."

"You could solve the case while John and I go for pints."

"Boring."

"Not really," Greg has seen enough, and he snickers. "Congratulatory pints, so it seems."

The adults on the screen seem a bit surprised at this and there is a few seconds of awkward silence as, at least on Baker Street, Greg smiles a mite victoriously and Molly frowns and angles her head trying to figure out what just happened and how Greg figured it out.

On the other end of the conversation, kilometers away in the cabin, it is Sherlock who rather quickly realises. "Oh for god's sake, of course."

Greg's grin is then knowing and he laughs. "Yep. Nice new jewellery, there, mates. Titanium, is it?"

John sighs as Sherlock mumbles a bit under his breath, cursing his apparent lapse of paying attention, blaming John's imbecility and the honeymoon and all these bloody distractions.

When there was a break in Sherlock's verbal stream of annoyance, Greg chuckles again, but it is fond and genuine. "Still want those celebratory pints, John."

"Yeah, okay." He chuckles himself, leaning into Sherlock a bit, "Nothing personal, you know. We didn't want a fuss."

"I know." His eyes sparkle as he exchanges broad grins with Molly. "And I understand."

"We'll see you soon, then."

"Count on it." Greg sits quietly while Molly offers a few sentences about Rosie's day, that they're doing well, then gets up to tend to the rest of the evening activities. Greg turns back to the screen. With a smile and a nod, he points a finger at them, waggling it slightly. "I think it's great, you know. And it's about bloody time, you two."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thanks for following along, for all the help and encouragement on this rather intense journey.
> 
> ++
> 
> I know there are a few edits yet to be made, and it's long story personally, but suffice it to say that I promise I will clean up these few things, make some minor edits. For the moment, it's as done as it can get. Not beta-read, not Brit-picked, all mistakes are my own. I dislike not having more time to put the usual polish on this.
> 
> ++
> 
> I really had intentions to resolve things with Mycroft and have a little ending story with him but there are RL demands over the next couple of weeks and if it doesn't finish now right this minute, well... I'm just looking to get this final chapter out there. Suffice it to say that there's a little plot bunny with Mycroft that would have gone sweetly. Well, actually, knowing Mycroft it might start a bit sour first. Like a Sour Patch Kid. Maybe this spring.


	16. Epilogue:  Mycroft's Parallel and Postscript.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An addendum:
> 
> Parallel scenes, and a little family epilogue.
> 
> Mycroft's perspective and his story line ending with a little future-based get together - and celebrating Rosie.

Mycroft wouldn't have known the term in his youth, but he understood enough about it to recognise the uniqueness that he shared with his younger brother Sherlock. Of their relationship, their commonalities, their gifts. Blessed at birth with parents of unusual genetics - intelligence, wisdom, and the ability to embrace their children's needs - all he needed to do on some of those childhood days was to look at Sherlock, to see limitless potential in the eyes of his brother. They played, they fussed, they argued as they grew, and yet Mycroft was the only one who really understood Sherlock's frustration, his railing at the limitations of his youth or of his social ineptness. Of his being continually, pervasively misunderstood.

Because even at their young ages when Sherlock's language skills could not have explained it, Mycroft could just take a look at him, and know. There may have been pleading, or anger, restless desperation, or annoyance, when he was just beyond vexed. He would nod, smile, perhaps frown just a bit, let his brother connect with him. It was calming. It was the relief of finally being understood. 

Mycroft was the sole individual who could peer into the depths of Sherlock's chaotic, as-yet-untamed genius thought patterns, and really see him. And in the seeing, the need to be seen, was met. And answered, in the resulting quieting of Sherlock's wildness, of his over-active brain.

His presence could quiet him when everything else failed. Eventually the violin would help. Substances, not so much. John Watson was another story.

Over the years, the fraternal connection would change, morph into less, as they developed uniquely into adults of uncanny brilliance. The connection, the fraternal affinity, became something different. But in many ways, no less strong.

++

Mycroft summoned all his internal strength to refrain from an explosive, reactive response. His breath, carefully drawn in, was quiet. "That is not the question I asked of you."

"I understand that, sir, but it is really impossible to ..."

"I am asking you for the impossible answer than. Your best evaluation, your intuition, your gut feeling, your careful consideration, your impulse: Is my brother in the best hands available for his condition?"

"I don't think treatment would --"

"No." A small bit of history reverberated through the back of Mycroft's awareness, wishing for previous Medieval times where he could have gestured with a regal finger, _that is all, take him away, off with his head_ for the insubordination. "Yes or no. That is all."

He can hear the huff through the mobile pressed to his ear. "Sir, truly, I cannot in good conscience ans--"

"Stop. Consider that I could have a gun to your head, this is your family, your loved one, your responsibility: do you move him to another facility?" He waited only a few seconds. _"Answer me."_

++

Over the years, the notifications came sometimes from a hospital A&E: we have your brother here, he's not well.

Sometimes it was quite blunt: he overdosed again. Or, he overdosed, we reversed him, and he's already bolted before we could stop him.

Now and again, a parent: someone needs to do something, and he doesn't listen to us. Can you please talk to him? Maybe this time ...

Sometimes, a police officer: I'm calling to notify you that he's being taken for medical care. Again. I suggest that you get him admitted.

Other times, Sherlock himself, unintelligible words or slurred requests for help. Interspersed with demands and insults.

The Proctor's Disciplinary council, only once: come pick him up, and just to keep you informed, there will be a university panel meeting later today, where I will be recommending immediate expulsion for behavioural misconduct.

All too well he vividly recalled one notification from a newer Deputy Inspector Gregory Lestrade advising him that he'd found Sherlock, again, at a crime scene spouting off his mouth, impaired but ... there was something more. Something too precious to waste. He told him that an intervention was needed if any of them were going to prevent something serious - more serious - from happening. There had been something in his words, in his tone, in the sincerity that had rung true that had made Mycroft wondering at the DI's above-average insight.

Sherlock hadn't listened to any of these, hadn't responded to any of the admissions, the rehabs, the conversations.

Until it was almost too late, and Mycroft had been forced to involuntarily place his sibling in an elite, long-term facility, where he detoxed, screamed, cursed, complained, and attempted to manipulate himself out of the system. He was almost successful a few times and only foiled due to Mycroft's assertive insight, preparation, and preventative skills.

But he'd eventually been released, dabbled occasionally, and Mycroft still waited for that notification, that phone call, that knock on the door. Final notice. Sometimes the weight was heavy in his gut, the worry, the concern, the sense that bad news was forthcoming, impending doom.

Until John Watson. Or well, almost. Although a relapse had occurred when John had been ... distracted, now that it seemed John was present in every sense, Mycroft had worried less.

_"You need to come. Immediately."_

But now, that nauseous, roiling feeling about his stomach, the sensation that his breathing was tight - worry, panic, anxiety - returned. The fear something was going to happen, that he couldn't control, that now after all they'd been through, that he is going to lose him. The nausea, a bubbling cauldron of discomfort, had returned. In spades.

He was not willing to gamble, to risk his brother's well-being. Not in the least. John was in the trenches with Sherlock, and Mycroft knew that his job was to keep him there, keep them both fighting, and do whatever he could do on every possibility, every contingency plan, from the background.

++

"Do I have him transferred to another hospital?" The restating of the question was simply to keep them both focused.

"No." In the second after the statement, the physician on the other end of the mobile could feel the tension dissipate at the decision, the statement, the word that was uttered even as he vacillated at what the wisest answer was. He let his voice relax along with the hand that gripped the phone. "Leave him." He considered expounding on the opinion, that another hospital wouldn't be doing anything different, that UCL's patient outcomes were very good, that the doctors who had been caring for Sherlock were excellent, that the nursing staff was seasoned, competent, and well-educated. He left this out - if Mycroft wanted specifics, he would have asked.

Mycroft can feel the relief, the assurance, the weight lift slightly from his shoulders. "Thank you."

"I will continue to monitor things, using the electronic access you've provided, very discreetly. If I get any sense that things are different, or something changes so that my answer would be different, rest assured that --"

"I know. And I apologise for the pressure." Although he can't see it, Mycroft knew that the man's facial expression was unpleasant; lips drawn, eyes tight, perhaps teeth clenched. He has at least marginally offended this man, this friend, resource, and confidante. Time to soothe the ruffled feathers. "Your opinion means quite a lot to me."

"I wish your brother the fullest recovery possible." The man's tone was less aggrieved, less put upon, but he could hear the readiness to be done with the conversation, and Mycroft can feel the slight twitch in the side of his own mouth. Needs must.

"Indeed."

The line disconnected, and Mycroft sent a quick text, a request to his PA to follow up this latest encounter with something meaningful - a gift or service of some type. He needn't bother with the details, as he knew that was why he employed such clever and resourceful staff. They took care of things - and they made him look good while doing it.

++

He held a computer-generated background check, a summary of employment, military missions, and a personal bio. He desperately needed not only someone who would be competent and attentive to Rosie's needs but more importantly someone that John would trust, that John would find dependable, whatever it would take to allow him to be in the moment while Sherlock was so ...

He sighed, his exhaled breath warm against his lip. Unstable, he figured. Unpredictable.

Tenuous.

Vulnerable.

There was a short rap at the door, his PA announcing the arrival of the candidate.

He'd used the term au pair to John, but in truth, it would be so much more. Clearances galore, high rank, pervasive professionalism, suitable for so much more than the care and keeping of a toddler. But she would be well compensated, and as a governmental employee, was willing, open to his terms, said that she actually enjoyed small children, and immediately available.

She was cool under pressure. She maintained eye contact. Her hands were relaxed, even at the occasional intrusive question, at the ... borderline interrogation-type questions that he fired at her. Her nod when he explained that the assignment under consideration was personal in nature was followed by the faintest hint of a deeper understanding, as evidenced by a knowing smile, a look, the twinkling of her bright eyes. An epiphany, an _I'm-on-to-you_. It stopped short of being impertinent, but it was too close for him. He stopped mid-sentence, knowing that his eye had narrowed, and he inclined his head at her, raised a brow until her mouth went back to its normal shape.

"Something you find amusing?"

"No sir, but I --" She did smile then, briefly. "May I speak freely?" Mentally, he was considering moving past her in the list as he made a get-on-with-it gesture with his fingers. Her smile was kind, as were her eyes. "I do understand that you are heavily invested. These scare tactics are largely fine but entirely unnecessary."

"I wasn't aware that these questions were 'scare tactics,' actually."

"Oh please," she said quietly with a quiet but amused voice. "Rest assured that I give every job my full and undivided attention." She gave him another look, then, one of competence and a strong disposition. "I realise you haven't named your client, but I know who you are, of course. And I know your brother, by reputation anyway, and that he has been a previous target. As have those close to him. I have had high profile clients before, and I have to tell you that if you hire me and, just as a theoretical situation, if I were to find that you are a threat to him, I will find a careful intervention to neutralise _you_ to ensure _his_ safety." She let those words sink in.

Mycroft blinked, hearing what she was saying and what she wasn't.

Self-assured, she nodded, and her steady, unwavering, non-frightened eye contact with him was what ended up making up his mind. "Thank you. Your forms indicate you are available immediately." He slid over a piece of paper. "Report to this address this afternoon, between two-thirty and three. My PA will meet you there." Rising to his feet, he smiled as much as he could muster given that his mind was somewhat occupied with the latest update from the hospital and how weary and haggard John had looked.

A handshake confirmed it, and Lydia's demeanor gentled. "I'll do my best, and hopefully you can be freed up to be there for your ..."

"Younger brother. Sherlock. Yes." His voice wobbled slightly with emotion, and he was immediately embarrassed, tried to cover it by clearing his throat. His shoulders thrust back and he blinked, stared at his desk. Dismissively, he murmured, "That'll be all, then."

Her steps were quiet to the door, and she paused at the door. "I'll take care of them."

"I know. Thank you."

And then she was gone.

++

"Mycroft Holmes." He'd seen the caller ID of UCL Hospital, knew it was an update from one of the physicians, saw no reason to answer the phone any differently.

"It's Dr. Nguyen. Kathy. The intensivist caring for your brother?"

"Of course."

"I'm calling to update you about the very real possibility that he's going to need intubation."

"Intubation," he echoed, knowing he was frowning. Although his heart was beginning to pound, he took a deep breath, stalling. "Life support?"

"Yes." In the background, Mycroft could hear the faint sounds of a busy nursing unit, alarms, muffled voices, beeping monitors. "We're trying to hold off as long as possible if we can, but he's showing some signs of fatigue, and his oxygen levels just aren't responding as we'd hoped."

"The medication isn't working?"

"Well, hard to say. He'll go back to Interventional Radiology for a re-study in a few hours, but it's not making the difference that we prefer to see. His oxygen levels are just barely marginal right now. Any lower, and he'll need mechanical ventilation."

"If he needs it, wouldn't it be safer to simply place the tube and support him? Wouldn't more oxygen be better?"

"Actually, yes, that makes sense on one level, except that every study indicates that intubation and mechanical ventilation in the setting of massive pulmonary embolism increases mortality rate."

"So if he ends up needing it, he's more likely not to ..." Mycroft simply thought the word loudly instead of saying it. 

"Survive. Correct." There are louder alarms in the background again. "I just wanted you to know. We'll hold off a little, but there might come a time where we no longer have a choice." There was a pause while a hand apparently covered the receiver, the mouthpiece, muffling the words in the background. "I'll let you know, if we do."

"I see. Is Dr. Watson there, and does he know this?"

"He's been at the bedside all day. And yes, he's quite aware." From her vantage point at the desk, she could see the flashing of the monitor values, abnormal. In blue, the pulse oximetry, eighty-four, eighty-four, eighty-three. "John asked me to keep you abreast."

Mycroft had murmured through the rote words of appreciating the call and disconnecting. It was significant that John didn't - or couldn't - send the update himself. That's how critical the situation was, and giving dire news by text message was unpleasant.

Vividly he could recall the text messages he'd exchanged with Sherlock, those terrible moments from Bart's rooftop, the Lazarus reference, the things set in motion by decisions made urgently. Hard decisions, he knew, and this was no exception.

The mobile was still in his hand as, numbly, just barely processing, many minutes later when the mobile rang again. Same number. Not good.

"Holmes." The word was flatter, cautious, tentatively slower. Business-like. But he'd never known a business call with stakes this high.

"Kathy Nguyen again. I just stepped from Sherlock's room long enough to call you."

"Yes."

"John's with him, still, but ... I think you should come to the hospital." Mycroft realised he was holding his breath, didn't care, continued to wait. "We just intubated. And even so, his oxygen levels are still low." Deep inside his own chest, Mycroft could hear the words,_ increased mortality rate_ echo in his brain, and could feel the churning, the fear, the sense that the other shoe had just dropped and they were all in trouble. Kathy's words continued, kind as could be, and despite the busyness that was in the background, she didn't rush as she said it again, "I think you should come. Have someone drive you, if you can."

There was a cold, congealed pit of fear beneath his sternum. It coalesced in his stomach and stole his breath, stole his body heat, stole his vision. Was this it? All of what he'd navigated, he and Sherlock, his childhood, his challenges, his history, Eurus, Victor, his career, his dealings with Moriarty, Magnussen, and Morstan - all ending this way?

Dear lord, no.

++

"So you're telling me, what, exactly? I had hoped I'd misunderstood." Mycroft gripped his mobile tighter, keeping his voice on an even tone even as he could feel thumping, surging, his own pulse sounding in his ears. Street lights illuminated the back of the car at differing angles as they drove past - shifting shadows on the deep leather seats through tinted windows. It had been explained, but he'd been so hopeful, so tightly clinging to the fact that he didn't want it to come to pass. He'd only listened with the surface of denial, that protective _please-no-please-hopefully-it-won't-come-to that._

"No. You heard correctly." His medical advisor, the upper level medical man he turned to for guidance was clear. "He's required intubation, you said." The contact on the other end knew all of Mycroft's communication preferences, knew not to mince words, knew not to sugar coat anything. "As they'd explained to you before, the hope was that he would rally, that the medications would be effective, that his condition would not deteriorate."

"Intubation. They said this was the same thing as life support?"

"Yes, assistance with ventilation and respiration through a tube through the mouth. His mentation, oxygenation perilously low. And so the decision was made. His blood gas, that's a test to determine oxygenation, was ... well, in a few words, terribly concerning." Awful, he didn't say, although he'd seen the result personally. In medical school, the term 'incompatible with life' might have been used, or something damn close, and this he also kept to himself. He elaborated a little bit on what Sherlock's physician had explained, that in the case of massive pulmonary embolism, they hold off on assisted ventilation as long as possible, as long as _safely possible_, because once the tube goes in, the patient's survival is less certain.

"Mortality rate?" Mycroft had certainly heard what Sherlock's physician had said and was seeking outside corroboration.

"Mr. Holmes," the voice said quickly, "Just because the odds are somewhat against, does not necessarily mean that Sherlock will --"

_"Mortality. Rate."_ It was no longer a question.

The medical advisor, the physician heard the imperial demand, the cool distance, the need for knowledge. "Somewhere a bit more than fifty percent, given the massive pulmonary embolism with cardiovascular collapse and refractory hypoxaemia."

"Would relocating him --?"

"Out of the question now. Attempting transport at this critical juncture would certainly prove --" He stopped himself before using the word_ fatal._ "Deleterious." There was a pause. "Nothing would be any different at another medical facility, and the stress of ... well, you understand." Too critical to move. Mycroft understood. Had they waited too long?

Hard swallow, intentional inhale, silently. Thrum-thrum-thrum in Mycroft's ears, stress related, heart-pounding response to his indescribable fear. "Keep me posted."

"Yes sir, of course." The physician on the other end of the line did not work to keep the emotion, the response from Mycroft's hearing. Apologetically, he stated that there was still reason to hope: "He may yet do well."

"I am quite aware of what fifty percent means." His chin lifted as he pressed the disconnect button on the screen of his mobile and exhaled, his breath shaky. The car slowed down as the hospital building came into view.

He glanced out the window, absently watching as the entrance neared, thinking that he would glean the most useful information just from a glimpse of John Watson's face. He already knew John was head-in-the-game serious, that he would be quite focused, but he would be able to read the urgency, the degree of concern, the sense that John with all his medical expertise and intuition, would just _know_. It would be clear in the depths of John's insightful eyes.

And if John Watson was worried, it was with good reason.

++

Mycroft's mobile alerts had been recently adjusted - fine-tuned - to reflect the whereabouts of both John and Sherlock. It had been a stressful week filled with findings and procedures, updates and improvements. Now that he'd been moved out of the ICU, Mycroft checked less frequently than he had, but the one evening after he'd arrived home, he queried their locations and was somewhat surprised to find that they were together again, that John had left the hospital mid-afternoon and then returned late. No adverse flags that indicated physical deterioration had been added to Sherlock's notifications, so he didn't think that there had been a setback or other specific problem. 

He sent off an inquiring text to Lydia.

**Update please? MH**

**They're okay. Small one asleep upstairs. He returned to the hospital about a half hour ago. Lydia**

**For any specific reason? MH**

**Nothing that should be placed in an electronic communication. Lydia**

No more than five seconds elapsed before Lydia was answering Mycroft's ring on her mobile. She had not yet gone upstairs to bed, but moved away from the hallway to be sure as not to disturb Rosie. Rather than a typical greeting, she didn't waste a moment on banal pleasantries, mince words, nor try to sugarcoat anything. "You should know better than to request details via unsecured text message."

"Our mobiles are secure."

"My personal policy is that I don't trust the encryption." She eased into one of the stuffed chairs, considered by the contour of the cushion, the location in the room, that she was sitting in John's chair. "Didn't sound like there was a problem. Exactly."

"Did Sherlock ask John to return?"

"No."

"Explain." For a few seconds, Lydia remained silent, knowing that it was not her place to complain, to request that she be addressed with politeness. But the momentary pause did give Mycroft a moment to soften, just a little. "If you would, please."

"I can't speak for either of them. But I got the impression that Sherlock was miserable company earlier. John came home, made dinner, spent some nice time this evening with Rosie, and then ... well, he started getting all mopey himself, so I may have planted the seed, encouraged him to return."

"Sounds like they both needed that."

"Well, if Sherlock was already miserable and John wasn't much better, I figured they could go be miserable together." She didn't hold back the snicker. "Either way, it got John out of my hair."

Mycroft laughed at her blunt sense of humour. "Thank you very much." Lydia wasn't sure how to handle that statement, so Mycroft continued to fill the quietness. "For your intuition and your attention to all of them."

"It is my pleasure." Lydia's words rang quite true, for all her other assignments were usually unpleasant, older clients, occasionally dangerous or potentially requiring the need for force, or simply unsatisfying. She wriggled her foot, sitting in John's chair, surveying the room, the environment, the family that she was truly able to help. "I'm enjoying it, actually. And Rosie, well, she is quite a delight."

++

Mycroft's office was nearly always available if John arrived, with or without accompaniment, and the secretary barely moved, simply smiled before tilting her head toward the open door.

His arrival was unexpected, and Mycroft felt the slightest twinge of unease at the uncommon arrival of Dr. Watson. Although his first inclination was to stand, he forced his body to stay relaxed into the leather chair as he looked up. Slow steady breath. "John."

"Guess I'm not interrupting, or the door would have been closed. Or your PA would have tackled me or something." Mycroft's head tilted a slight amount in wordless acknowledgement. "Do you have a few minutes?" Mycroft blinked, tilted his head, feeling somewhat ambivalent at John's presence. Good news? Bad news? He was nothing if not a patient man, and he would wait. John sighed, and Mycroft noted the slightest bit of discomfort, unease. "Came to run something by you."

"Sherlock is ...?"

"Home. He and Greg are reviewing some miscellaneous things. He's fine." John frowned just a little at the slightly altered truth. "Well, getting there. Still some, you know, breathlessness at times. Especially with exertion, climbing the stairs. But improving."

"I understand that residual symptoms, what you're describing, can linger. I’m sure Sherlock finds them .... unwelcome. Frustrating."

Smirking, John kept his chuckle to himself. "Try utterly, unfathomably unacceptable."

Although the inflection wasn't spot on, Mycroft could hear Sherlock's frustration and verbiage. "I can only imagine."

They share a small smile, an acknowledgement of several things all at once: Sherlock was miserable, at least some of the time. And Sherlock was worthy of their concern. Both of them would take Sherlock's demeanour as it was as opposed to ... well, not having Sherlock's demeanor at all.

With a steadying breath, John indicated the empty chair. "May I?" Mycroft seldom used unnecessary words if he could, and at Mycroft's faint nod, John took a seat, leaned back, crossed an ankle over his knee. "I know you've been fully updated about Sherlock's hospital course, his problems, and discharge plans." A flicker crossed Mycroft's face, the faintest hint of a suspicious smirk about his mouth. Somehow in John's head, he could hear Mycroft's imperious tone reverberating almost as loud as if he's spoken it: _obviously_. "I just wanted to be sure that one of his physicians or someone on your staff had completely described what started it all. The clot which led to the PFO, the patent foramen ovale, that was discovered."

Mycroft's nod was slight. "A remnant of foetal circulation. An opening between ..." and here his words trailed off and his head angled slightly as he searched for the specific details.

"Right, between the upper chambers of the heart." John's clarification was simply to keep the conversation moving and both of them focused. "So most of the time, it's not a problem. And it's pretty common. Quarter of the population or so." He hesitated long enough to see that Mycroft was keeping up. "In Sherlock's case, it became a huge problem because of the pulmonary embolism, increased pressures and such, which forced blood clots through this opening," and reflexively, John's hand had come up to his own chest, indicating the flow of blood, "and into his arm. Threatened a stroke, those fleeting neuro changes, you recall," and Mycroft nodded again, his expression serious and his eyes watching John intently, "because of the pressure gradients --"

"Path of lesser resistance."

"Exactly." Unrushed, John waited again. "So they closed it, and he should never have that kind of problem again. It's protective, that it's closed."

"Indeed." Mycroft's brow raised, somewhat in impatience, and he continued to watch John.

Time for the disclosure. "So you need to know that it tends to run in families. Perhaps a little more common in females, but there is a definite link with familial heredity." Had John not been watching for it, he may have missed the slight pupil flare, the faint hitch in the other man's breathing. "I recommend that you discuss screening with your primary physician at your earliest convenience."

There was a slight elevation in Mycroft's posture as he sat up the faintest amount straighter. "I'm in perfect health."

John blinked once but otherwise didn't move and he let the silence just lay there for a few seconds. "How's the smoking habit going?"

One eye narrowed. "None of your business, I would suspect."

"Spend a lot of time at a desk, do you?" John knew his tone was bordering on cynical, didn't care. "Little travel now and again, perhaps a little more sedentary these days."

Mycroft's face flushed in annoyance. "Not significantly more than --"

"And how's that blood pressure doing? Seems to me, probably a little elevated, given your high stress job, family history, age, smoking, and diet." John snickered slightly as Mycroft leaned forward and put his hands on the desk in front of him in order to convey his dissatisfaction with John's words, his message, his very presence, his unhappiness. "You should probably watch that, getting upset, I mean, look at you, even your face is red, probably stress response, blood pressure elevates with all of that." Briefly, John considered that his hands were perfectly steady as he recalled Mycroft's observation of him so long ago, in that car park, before John even knew his identity, his connection to Sherlock. "Modifiable risk factors, to some degree. Non-modifiable ones includes family history. Cholesterol, to some degree. Have you had that checked lately?"

Mycroft did then lean back in the chair, deliberately trying to at least give the impression that he was relaxed, casual, unaffected. But there was a sour expression on his face. The glare conveyed all that he would have liked to say in return.

"I just wanted to make sure you knew. At least think about getting screened. Sherlock got very lucky with his recovery, his survival, actually." To John's horror, he could hear the emotion in his voice, the reiteration of the fact that it was a close call, that he did almost lose his life. He steeled himself, not wanting to go through a traumatic experience like that again, with anyone. Raising a brow and collecting himself again, he pressed on, "You know how rocky it was, how close he came to dying."

There was a single nod.

John considered adding to what he'd said, opted to just let the words hang there, to leave them to sink in. He slid his mobile from his pocket and looked Mycroft in the eye as he wiggled it, the offer to be available if he had any further comments. "If you need."

Mycroft nodded again, and in the seconds that they locked eyes, John saw a bit more: gratitude. And a hint of mild fear. And ... grudgingly ... respect.

++

Steady steps ascended the steps. Rosie was down for her nap and John had just straightened up, was enjoying the stillness and order of the flat. Knuckles tapped on the door, quietly, but John had already moved to answer it before there was more noise and the chance of disrupting the sleeping toddler.

"Sherlock's not here at the moment."

"I know." Mycroft's affect was somewhat quiet. "I came to talk to you." John stepped aside, closed the door behind Sherlock's brother.

"Look, if it's about the other day, I just don't want you to have to go through what Sherlock did, and --"

"I'm scheduled for next Monday. The echo. Trans-oesophageal."

"Oh." John knew he was frowning just a bit at the reveal. "Okay." He considered the idea of mentioning that text messages would have saved him the trip over. Or that, as Mycroft had said before, it technically wasn't any of John's business.

"I'm a little ..." _nervous._

"They'll do a good job, you know. It involves a little sedation and is not unpleasant, as best as they can. The testing, I mean." John also knew that Mycroft was already many steps ahead, wondering, probably thinking about results. "And it very easily could be negative, you know." He didn't wait for Mycroft to answer, but he shrugged as he kept his tone light. "It'll be worth it for the peace of mind."

"I wish for you to be present."

John initially thought he misheard. Then knew that he hadn't. _Really?_ His frown deepened. "Okay, I can go with you."

"No, I only agreed to have it done, _only_ if you would ... be in the procedure room. To help keep ... an eye on things."

"What, something about governmental secrets and you receiving sedation?"

"No, but now that you mention it, perhaps." A faint smile appeared and disappeared just as quickly as it had come. "If you truly don't wish to, I understand, but ..."

John heard the subtext, that Mycroft was actually admitting that he was afraid. "No, it's no problem, long as you already cleared it with your doctor."

"Taken care of." He was more serious then. "And this is just you. Not Sherlock of course."

"Of course."

"Your mobile as well as any other recording device of any kind, is not to be brought in, either."

John took the slightest bit of offense at that, then considered Mycroft's probably very real concerns, growing up with Sherlock, at risk reduction. "I'm sure you needed to say that, but I would never." A thought occurred to him. "Are you expecting some sort of dramatic anaesthesia emergence? Do you get agitated ... or ..." John was really puzzled at his dramatics until he remembered exactly with whom he was dealing. "Or silly? Do you wake up from anaesthesia... I don't know, _singing_ or something?"

He stood up short, his neck stretching up and his shoulders coming back in some sort of offended posture. "I wouldn't know," he admitted.

John understood then, that he'd never been under anaesthesia. "I'm sure it'll be --"

Mycroft interrupted. "I'm not expecting anything as bohemian as ... giddyness, or singing. Of course not. I simply ... am considering all angles and reducing risk of any sort." He stopped short of glaring at John. "I thought that this was ... somehow ... commendable. I thought perhaps that your reaction would be something else. Supportive, perhaps." His cynicism became readily apparent and an eyebrow flickered in annoyance. "If you truly don't wish to be there, that's --"

"No, I have no issue with it. And absolutely it's a wise medical decision." He pinched the bridge of his nose, brushed at his face, and sighed. "Look, if you're expecting me to give you all sorts of praise or hand-holding for doing the right thing, I have to tell you, that's not really my style." He hoped his expression was encouraging. "But I'll be there if that's what you want. And I'll make sure it all goes smoothly."

++

Mycroft's last recollection was the burning, the stinging, of IV medication. Of beginning to feel claustrophobic approaching panicky, what with the oxygen and the bite block and the monitoring equipment, and thinking that he'd made a terrible mistake and that he was going to call the whole unnecessary, ridiculous, dangerous thing off. Pressing up with both arms, toward his face, resisting everything he could reach, he tried to wrench his body away. The sedation waved through him and he could distantly hear the voice of John Watson as his eyes closed of their own accord - unacceptable, out of control, stop this right now! - and then John's voice, calmly, "You're fine, deep breaths now, that's it," and there was the faint squeeze of a warm hand holding onto his shoulder, also John's hand, warm and dependable.

And then ... absolutely nothing. The blissful blank, the absence of awareness. The nothingness of amnestic sedation.

His next recollection, far different. He was chilly, shaky, heavy, and some altered version of pseudo-awake as if a switch had been partially thrown, although it was still dark. His eyelids were especially heavy and there was an awkward metallic, chemical scent about him, the intrusiveness of something in his nose. His fingers, also weighted somehow, moved to displace it, pull it out, and there was a catch and a sharp pain in the back of his hand.

"Don't pull. And you’re catching your IV site." Warm fingers not his own pressed down on his wrist. "You're okay." The hand was warm on his arm but felt oddly distant, as if it didn't belong to him. "Deep breath." He attempted to comply, then again tried to twist his head away, trying to dislodge the device under his nose. John's voice, "Open your eyes. Test's all done now." The plastic piece in his nose was reseated, and there was a pat on his shoulder, followed by John's voice again. "I see you frowning, know you're awake. Sort of." There was another wave, a drifting, and heaviness settled back over him and the fingers on his wrist disappeared. "Whatever, resting is good too," came the muttering near him.

A few minutes later, or a much longer span of time, he surfaced again. This time, his eyelids responded and he blinked them open. From his vantage point still on his left side, there were shiny chrome bed rails in his immediate line of vision. And between them, in a folding padded chair holding a newspaper sat John Watson. His eyes flicked over, noticed Mycroft, and the newspaper lowered marginally. "You mean it this time? Seriously, you've awakened like four times now."

"Is it done?" He barely recognised his own voice.

"All finished."

"And?"

"I'll tell you when you're more awake, otherwise, it's just repetitive and I'll have to keep on telling you."

There was a frown, but Mycroft closed his eyes briefly only to reopen them. He was foggy, still. "Is it done?"

"Case and point." John set the newspaper aside. "Deep breaths," he directed as one of the nurses came over to check on them, cycle another blood pressure. He began to reach for the oxygen tubing again, and John let the nurse address the need to continue to wear it. Mycroft asked her for the results, which she of course didn't give him either, citing that results needed to come from the doctor, who would be over when he was more awake.

++

Rosie cast a glance about her across the kitchen table there in the cottage outside Ipswich. It was a cabin, a rustic little getaway, a connection of her papa's that they visited occasionally, sometimes the adults without her, now and again all of them. Regardless, she'd been before and really liked it. For her tenth birthday, she had requested and been granted a long weekend there with all her favourite people. They'd made the trip by car the night before, stopping as they always did every hour or so in order that her papa could make them all get out of the car, stretch their legs.

Trips with her family, it was one of those things, and Rosie had never known any differently, whether they traveled by train or any other mode, the stopping. The demand to get up, get out, walk around. She'd heard the stories of course, of something that she didn't remember at all from when she wasn't even yet two, something medical that had happened which she had mostly tuned out as irrelevant. She would actually have been quite surprised to find out that every person - friends, family, whomever - wasn't required to take these breaks, walk around, keep blood flowing. And as her papa had his routine, usually involving putting the car into park and shutting it off, calling an "okay, everybody out!" her _Pere_ had his routine too. It involved token resistance, verbal always and sometimes bordering on physical, at which point the statement was made about keeping blood flowing, to which her papa would usually growl something threatening about keeping blood flowing while he grinned and gestured with a teasing fist.

Her birthday dinner, also her request for her papa's cottage pie, had just been finished, dishes removed, stomachs not too full for dessert. The cake, baked and brought along by Molly (who'd arrived just midday), vanilla with a coffee-flavoured creme filling, waited. Her Uncle Mycroft's hand was poised with the lighter hovering over the candles, and he smiled in her direction. "Ready?"

She pursed her lips, feeling the need to turn up the drama, raised an arrogant brow, blew out a puff of contrived frustration. She mustered her ten-year old sass. "Obviously."

"Ro," John breathed low, a cautious admonition in his tone. She stared back at him, with mock innocence and batted her eyes at him. He angled his head, puzzled at her attitude. In response, she cocked a hand on her hip as she'd seen done by some of the others in the room.

"What?" she said, then couldn't keep in the giggle any longer, unable to keep the teasing away, and the tension in the room lowered a little. Looking across the table, she caught sight of her _Pere_, one brow also raised, but she couldn't tell if it was in approval or disappointment. It incited her to up her game. "What?" she directed at him, her whole being back into the challenge, attempting to come over as cross. "It's far more tame than you do with Uncle Mycroft. You both are just ... _mean_ to each other."

"Yes, but ..." Mycroft began.

"Stop." John raised both hands between them. "It's not why we're here." Several sets of eyes blinked back at him. "Hello, birthday, remember?"

"Maybe this is also what I wanted for my birthday - entertainment." All eyes focused on her. "You know," she continued, "maybe a knock-down, drag-out, bloody-nosed fight." With a spirited finger, she pointed between Sherlock and Mycroft. "You know, Holmes vs. Holmes, fight until the death, winner take all." She had their attention, so she kept going. "Like the duel, in that musical Hamilton?"

"You realise that was based on history, right. That actually happened. History came first, and then the musical?"

"It's a terrible rendition about American history, and who really cares," Sherlock began.

Mycroft interrupted. "You should, we all should. Thank goodness we cut them loose before --"

"They won, you know, and I'll thank you to keep your musical opinions --"

"Just shut up," Mycroft whispered, "or I'll make sure Rosie gets her wish to see your nose bl--"

"Yes!" Rosie hissed, a big smile on her face.

Quickly John interjected, "No." Although he wanted to put his face in his hands in chagrin - good lord, where did she come up with this stuff, anyway? - he was half afraid to take his eyes off the room.

"We would never," Sherlock muttered, glancing at his brother, who was nodding his head.

"Our battles are much more refined than resorting to ... _fisticuffs_. Highly intelligent demonstrations of ..."

"Clever wit," Sherlock finished for him. "Mine, anyway."

Their eyes locked, Mycroft standing with his shoulders back slightly, looking down his nose at Sherlock, whose chin raised a little at the consideration. "Well, usually. You're not so clever tonight."

"You should be careful not to underestimate me."

Mycroft shook his head, in exaggerated sadness. "You're just not worth the energy tonight."

"Perhaps tomorrow."

"You won't be worth it then, either." Mycroft's mouth, just faintly, twitched at his own retort. "Childishly appropriate for a juvenile birthday party."

Sherlock took a step closer, eyes blazing, and he squared his own shoulders, taking a deep breath as he was ready to unleash more in Mycroft's direction.

"If Rosie wants bloody noses, I'm growing inclined to give in to that request," John told the room. "Starting with yours," he directed this at Sherlock.

"I'm on ... _blood thinners_, you can't." Sherlock still faithfully took his daily, low strength aspirin. "But he's not."

"Yes, because my anatomical cardiac structures were not proven _defective_ like yours."

"If we're comparing anatomy now, perhaps --"

_Oh god no_, John thought, knowing he needed to intervene before anything got out of hand. "Stop it." John wrestled the lighter from Mycroft's hand then lit the candles. Time to redirect things here. "As our first gift to you, we're not going to sing." He slid the cake toward Rosie, grateful that this time he was successful in thwarting the argument. "But happy birthday, sweetheart. I can't believe you're ten!"

Molly echoed something along those lines, then directed, "Go ahead, make a wish and blow them out!"

She closed her eyes briefly, for only a second, then simply watched the candles burn. "No." She leaned back in the chair. "Gross."

"What's wrong?" John was the one who found his words first. And he asked somewhat timidly, hoping she wouldn't unleash something particularly offensive.

"I don't think I want to blow these out. The mouth is a veritable smorgasbord of bacteria. Why would I want to ... shower that all over this beautiful cake?" She was glad she'd overheard someone at school talking about it, had decided on this course of action, when they were all waiting on her. "A barbaric, disgusting tradition." Grinning at the effectiveness of her surprise, she began to pull out the candles and blow them out individually, off to the side. "This is better, papa. Much. Don't you agree?"

"Just don't burn your f--"

Sherlock, quite well within arms reach of the cake, reached out to pluck out a few others, and between he and Rosie (with John grabbing the final lit candle) they rescued the cake from the perils of hot wax and oral bacterial contamination.

"Well, that was unexpected," Mycroft said, a touch amused and entertained, particularly at Sherlock's little mishap, where a bit of melting candle wax did drip into his finger. It was in his mouth in a probably vain attempt to cool it down. "Serves you right, I'm sure," he muttered. "For all your brotherly concern and your threats and your being a terrible role model." Despite the juvenile barbs he tossed out, he seemed quite righteous.

Sherlock hesitated only a moment while Molly cut the cake, and once one piece was plated, he raised it to Rosie's chin. "Here, this is for Uncle Mycroft, in the hopes you'll reconsider. Extra bacteria for him, please."

He blinked, considering Rosie's expression - and he knew she would not be blowing on his cake, he could tell by her reluctant expression - and, ignoring his brother for the moment, he smiled and leaned closer. "You know what else is gross, Rosie?"

"I can think of a few things. Shall I start naming them?" she replied with animated exuberance. "Keep in mind that I could probably gross you out, considering that I've grown up with all kinds of medical descriptions, not to mention all of the other things in our refrigerator from time to time, and topics that get talked ab--"

"Kissing." Mycroft stated the word, waited a few seconds, said it again. "Kissing. Talk about bacterial exchange being gross." This, he directed in John and Sherlock's direction, and although they were behaving quite properly at the moment, certainly they had been known to participate in that activity.

"Kissing your uncle would be especially gross," Sherlock said. "No one, even you - especially you, Rosie - really should never, ever ..."

"Okay, that's enough," Molly said, looking intently at all of them. "I slaved over this beautiful cake. And I think Rosie deserves to be able to eat it in peace, without your bickering ... ruining the atmosphere. So, I am declaring this conversation over."

Rosie looked sharply at Molly, and although they were incredibly fond of each other, Rosie couldn't resist stirring the pot a bit, asking, "So how about you? Do _you_ like kissing?"

Molly didn't miss a beat. "Of course. When it's special, when it means something. Like for my favourite ten year old who is growing into a wonderful young woman." She tugged at Rosie's sleeve, pressed a kindly kiss to her temple, then returned to her cake distribution duties. "So eat up, enjoy." Her smile was tinted with a hint of a threat, and she glanced at John, Sherlock, and Mycroft to convey that she expected them to behave. "And I think there might be a present or two for you."

A few minutes later, the cake was mostly gone and enjoyed by them all, and Rosie had opened gifts - a new mobile from John and Sherlock, a necklace from Molly, a set of coloured pens and a journal from Mycroft.

"Oh, this has been awesome!" Rosie crooned, holding the mobile as she wrote her name in multiple colours inside the journal while wearing the new jewellery. "But you know what I'd really like for my birthday?" She hesitated, letting the adults really look at her, wondering. She could see that her _pere_ especially was trying to figure out her request. She'd been planning this, not necessarily as a serious request (although she thought it would be great if they could work it out somehow), but a moment that should take them by surprise anyway. Moreso than the candle situation. "I'd really, really, _really_ like," and she made every attempt to let her eyes blaze with excitement, "a little brother or sister." The silence was devoid of breathing, speech, and probably in a few cases, an actual pulse for a few seconds. _"Please?"_

++

There had been a few awkward seconds of silence before John tried to gently assure her that their family was perfect the way it was, that there were no siblings in her future.

And then right on cue, Mycroft chirped in that siblings were overrated and he would have almost sold his soul to the devil himself to have been a fortunate, privileged, only child.

Later, in the privacy of their cozy bedroom, keeping their voices barely low enough to hear each other, John brought it up.

"So where’d that come from?"

"She's up to something."

"I don't think so, I think it was an actual question. A request."

"She's up to something."

"I don't think so."

"Trust me."

"Maybe one of her friends is having a little sibling, and it planted the idea."

There was a bit of murmuring, and by this point, pyjamas were on and they were tucking cool feet under the duvet and the gathering toward each other, adjusting pillows and arms, a knee pressing over the other man's leg.

John pressed back to look at Sherlock. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Did you just call me an idiot again? I thought we’d talked about that?"

"It’s okay, you’re still my idiot."

"Not if you keep this up."

The room was already dark, but Sherlock could see enough, and he pressed up on an elbow, coming closer, pressing his lips over John's, teasing with his tongue, guiding with a hand over the angle of John's chin, his foot hooking about to draw John's knee closer. There was great, favourable response to the kiss, as bodies and breathing and hands went seeking and finding and desiring. "Liar."

"Oh hush."

++

In the tiny bedroom upstairs, Rosie was having a conversation of her own on the new mobile.

**I did it, I think I pulled it off.**

** Congratulations dear.**

**You’re sure it’s okay with you?**

** Of course. A small one, mind.**

**Yay. I was thinking tomorrow morning, after tea.**

** Good plan. I would suggest, be a little quiet, maybe chat about not sleeping all that well, and then when they’re sympathetic, announce you’ve come to a decision.**

**Perfect! Thanks Mrs H**

** I’ll work on some name suggestions for your new puppy.**

**Okay. See you tomorrow, I’ll let you know how it goes.**

** Good luck. And happy birthday dear.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn’t exactly going for manipulative behaviour from Rosie, but resourceful and intentional. Splitting a hair I suppose. She has been raised in a home in which she has learned quite a bit from the adults in her life. Nature and nurture, of course she is resourceful.
> 
> I vacillated on the mobile phone for a ten year old. Parental choice in a work of fiction, so here it is.
> 
> A very odd part of me wanted Mycroft to come out of his sedation singing Funiculi Funicula. I resisted. And only my web-browser knows for sure if I looked for that pairing.


End file.
